


Birthday Promise

by Buckeye01



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Athos Whump, Darkness, Explosions, Heavy Angst, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Poor Athos, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9704012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: An escaped convict has changed the course of d'Artagnan's birthday, turning the happy day into a nightmare with one unexpected turn of events. Will d'Artagnan's birthday forever be a day of dread? It all comes down to one simple, but profound birthday promise... and the clock is ticking!





	1. Trapped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MountainCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainCat/gifts).



> Dear Readers, I know that I promised I wouldn't do another story as I worked on my novel, but I am breaking that promise (unlike Athos) for a very special occasion. Today is my good friend, Mountain Cat's birthday, and I dedicate this story to her. Thank you for the advice, tips, encouragement, support, and for the many, many fun conversations since I discovered this awesome fandom. Happy Birthday, my friend!
> 
> Now, you all may notice a slight similarity at the beginning to the S1E2, Sleight of Hand, as it was my inspiration, but the rest is completely different. Enjoy!

BIRTHDAY PROMISE

****

**1400 HOURS:**

****The entrance to the narrow, stone corridor was dimly lit with oil lanterns, hung on large hooks attached to the wall. Workers kept torches, ready to be lit, inside the entrance for the occasional excursion deep within the bowels of the city. The sewers were a vast labyrinth of winding passageways underneath the growing city of Paris.

Only the entrance and a short distance into the sewers were lit by the lanterns, leaving the remaining tunnels blanketed in a thick, pitch-black darkness. The torches were a necessary means of navigating the confusing, and sometimes frightening, underground maze.

Athos and Porthos could barely catch their breath as they chased after the escaped convict, Pierre DuBois. The criminal had run into the sewers after escaping his escort to the gallows, where he was to be hanged. King Louis XIII ordered the Musketeers to apprehend DuBois, and return him—dead or alive.

The lack of oxygen deep inside the corridors was stifling, constricting the Musketeer’s lungs. Still, the men ran deeper into the labyrinth, torches in hand, guiding them through the darkness. 

Athos was gaining on Du Bois, his arquebus grasped tightly in his right hand, the muzzle facing upward at the low ceiling. He kept his finger near the trigger, ready to use the weapon, should the need arise. Porthos stayed right on the lieutenant’s heels, one hand holding his own torch, and the other clutching his sword.

“There’s nowhere to run!” Athos yelled, aiming his arquebus at the prisoner.

Prisoner DuBois turned, pausing long enough to allow a dastardly grin to spread across his face. He locked eyes with Athos and laughed, “oh, but you’re wrong.”

A flash of confusion crossed Athos’ face, wondering how a man in his position could be so cocky, when he was clearly trapped.

DuBois stepped around the corner, disappearing just before an earth-shattering explosion erupted a short distance behind the Musketeers. Hot blasts of whooshing air and fire swallowed the scant oxygen and space inside the tunnel.

“Get down!” Porthos barely had time to shout, as a large ball of fire rushed forward. A fraction of a second later, all went dark as the stone hallway collapsed with a deafening roar, burying the helpless Musketeers, and putting out the fires.

~§~

****

**1420 HOURS:**

****Clouds of hot, dusty air burst from the entrance of the sewers. Rock and debris trickled down, loosened by the shattering explosion from somewhere deep inside.

“My God, Athos and Porthos followed DuBois in there!” d’Artagnan screamed to Aramis over the noise of the panicked crowd. 

People rushed from the scene, terrified. The ground under their feet shook with enough force that many had thought an earthquake struck the city of Paris.

“There was an explosion, just after Porthos and Athos followed DuBois in there,” Aramis reported to the captain. Tréville joined his men at the entrance of the sewer, waving his hand to rid the air of the dust so he could see.

“I’ll need to gather more men to assist in the search, but I want you gentlemen. . .” the captain paused, reluctant to continue. He grabbed Aramis by the arm, stopping him from running into the tunnel before he could finish his order. “Find them, Aramis, but prepare yourself. . . they may not have survived that blast.”

“I won’t accept that possibility, Captain,” Aramis said, shaking his head adamantly. “Athos and Porthos are too skilled, too experienced, to be caught off-guard by that low-life devil, DuBois.”

“Even the most experienced soldiers are sometimes taken by surprise, Aramis,” Captain Tréville said, pursing his lips grimly. “I want you to be prepared, just in case.”

“We’ll find them, Captain!” D’Artagnan clapped Aramis on the shoulder, pushing past the medic to take the lead, disappearing into the sewer opening.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville called out after the departing men.

Aramis acknowledged the captain with a quick nod, before turning to follow the Gascon into the darkness of the sewers.

~§~

****

**1435 HOURS:**

****“Athos! Athos, can you hear me?” Porthos called, choking on the thick dust. “Athos, answer me, dammit!”

“Mngh,” Athos moaned, painfully. “I can’t. . . can’t move.”

“I can’t move either. Oi, I have a lap full of large rocks; my legs are pinned.” The large Musketeer felt around with his hands in the pitch-black darkness. “Our torches got buried, can’t see a bloody thing. Where are you? Are you hurt?”

Athos heard his name being called, but the fog in his brain muddled his senses. _Why can’t I move? My ears are ringing; I can’t hear. . . buzzing sound. . ._

“Athos, answer me!” the stern voice demanded. 

“Porth’s?” the Musketeer lieutenant said, slurring. Athos opened and closed his eyes, blinking away the dust clinging to his eyelashes. He tried reaching up to clean his face but his arm wouldn’t move. Confusion and terror gripped him, as excruciating pain coursed through his body. 

“Athos?”

“I can’t. . . breathe,” Athos blurted out with a wheezing noise. He panted, finding his gasps for breath painfully difficult. Something heavy pressed down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He found it easier to take shallow breaths, but the frightened, quickened pace made him lightheaded.

“Athos, what’s wrong?” Porthos called out anxiously. He frowned at the rapid breathing coming from his brother, echoing off the thick stone walls. “I wish we had some damn light in ‘ere; I can’t see where you are.”

“I’m here. . . right here.”

“It sounds like you’re in front of me,” Porthos said, feeling around with his hand. “Say somethin’ again so I can follow your voice.”

“I. . . don’t know where I am. . .” Athos’ voice trailed.

“Athos, stay with me, dammit!” Porthos snapped, his voice booming in the confined space. The noise jolted the lieutenant awake. “Don’t you fall asleep on me, mon cher. It sounds like you’re next to me, here on my left.” Once again, the large man felt around with his hand, stopping when he came in contact with a boot. “Wait, I can feel your boot!”

“Mmm,” Athos let out a groan, but said nothing.

“Athos, tell me if you can feel ‘at,” Porthos said, shaking the toe of the boot. “Are you able to move?”

“Yes, and no,” Athos replied finally, after an agonizing moment of silence. “I can feel my foot move, but I have something heavy. . . rocks on. . . my chest. It’s hard to breathe.” He sucked in a breath, only to cough from the choking dust tickling his throat. “Porthos, I c-can’t move the rocks. My chest. . . hurts under all this weight. It’ll take too long to find us. I’m not g-going to. . . make it.”

“Now, don’t you dare talk like ‘at. Do you hear me?” Porthos asked, not waiting for a reply. “We’re going to get out of here, Athos. You just need to hold on. . . just hold on, brother.”

“Yes, we. . . we have to get out,” Athos rasped. “It’s d’Artagnn’s birth-birthday. I can’t die on. . . on his birthday.”

“We are not talking about dying, so don’t there. I’m not dying and neither are you, Athos. I won’t let you.”

~§~

****

**1445 HOURS:**

****“Oh no!” D’Artagnan groaned as his torch lit up the narrow corridor, exposing the fallen rocks blocking their path. “It looks like the roof of that section has completely collapsed; we’re going to have to dig our way through.”

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis whispered aloud, crossing himself, his eyes wide. “If the rest of the passageway is like this, they’re likely buried under massive amounts of rubble. Dear God, how could they survive that?”

“We’ll find them, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, putting his hand on the medic’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “If anyone can survive a few rocks falling on them, it’s Porthos and Athos.”

“A few rocks?” Aramis scoffed, scrubbing his face with an anxious hand. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better, mon ami. I know what we’re up against-- and what they’re up against.”

“Yes, I know you do, my friend, but I refuse to dwell on anything but finding our brothers alive. It’s my,” d’Artagnan paused, his voice cracking, “it’s my birthday wish—to find them alive. I don’t ask for anything but their lives. I don’t think that’s too much to ask!” The Gascon picked up a stone, tossing it aside. He reached for another, and then another.

Aramis joined in, picking of the stones at the top of the large pile, tossing them aside by the wall. “We’re going to need people in here, helping to pull out this debris, or it will certainly block our ability to leave.”

“We’ll get right on that, Aramis,” Captain Tréville announced from behind them.

The two men turned, each letting out a relieved sigh at seeing a group of Musketeers approaching to assist with the removal of rock and debris.

“We don’t know how severe the cave-in is, so stay away from the walls and be careful. Take the rocks from the top, and work your way down,” Aramis instructed.

The dark tunnel was too narrow to accommodate but three men at the mountainous pile. Captain Tréville joined Aramis and d’Artagnan at the mound, while the remaining men formed a human chain, removing the stones and depositing them in another corridor of the sewer. 

“This looks to be the epicenter of the blast, given these charred stones,” the captain said, pointing out the burned streaks. “Look, here on the walls, and the broken remains of the ceiling, this is where DuBois put the explosives. If we can break through this pile of debris, we should be able to find the men soon thereafter.”

“That is, if they aren’t also buried under a mountain of rubble,” d’Artagnan added, grimly. 

“If they are buried, we need to make this fast,” Aramis said, tossing aside another stone. “They don’t have much time.”

~§~

****

**1700 HOURS:**

****“Athos, you still with me, brother?” Porthos called, wincing at the pain pounding in his legs. “Talk to me. Tell me what you got for d’Artagnan for his birthday?”

Athos huffed wearily, trying to ride out another wave of pain. He let his eyes droop closed, but they quickly flew open as Porthos’ warning broke through his consciousness. “I. . . I got him a new pocket clock. He saw it. . . in Legrand’s shop on Rue Lecourbe and said it would. . . help. . . help him.” He let out a cry as agony burned through him, searing his very soul. Blood pounded in his ears as the darkness beckoned him.

“Athos! Athos, take it easy. Slow your breathing. . . in and out, slowly,” Porthos said, coaching his friend to relax. “That’s the way; slow, relaxin’ breaths.”

“You. . . you sound like Ar’mis,” Athos said, wheezing. 

“Rubbish, I’m better lookin’."

“Mmm,” Athos groaned aloud, stifling a snicker. “This is not an app-appropriate time for. . . for jokes.”

“Not trying to be funny, just tryin’ to keep you awake, mon cher.” Porthos squeezed the boot, still firmly gripped in his left hand.

“I- I’m afraid the pocket clock is broken. . . sm-smashed,” Athos lamented. “I picked it up at the shop today. I was going to. . . to take it to my rooms but. . . merde,” he gasped, taking in a breath of air through his nose as he endured more gripping pain. “We were c-called to the palace, so I put it in my pocket.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Porthos paused, “but you know d’Artagnan will understand. He doesn’t care about _things_ , he cares about you.” 

“And. . . and you, Por. . .” Athos cried out, gritting his teeth against the agony choking the air from his lungs. The injured man turned his head to the side, coughing up bile, and. . . _Is that blood I taste?_ His breaths sputtered, faltered. He continued drawing in air, though his lungs burned with every breath. 

“Athos, ‘member what I said, slow your breathing. Take it easy. Slow, easy breaths, in and out. . . in and out.”

The injured man took several careful, superficial breaths, keeping his rhythm slow and even. He purposely avoided reaggravating his lungs by stifling the coughs as best he could.

“Are you with me, brother?”

“Y-yes, I’m here.”

“You know d’Artagnan won’t care ‘bout the clock. We’re brothers; we’re a family,” Porthos said, his voice revealing the anxiety and fear he felt for his friend. He coughed, clearing his throat of dust and emotion. “What I wouldn’t give for a pint,” he rasped, changing the subject. “I had a nice party planned for our younger brother tonight—dinner and drinks at the Wren. I reserved our favorite table in the corner.”

“What did. . . what did you get for him, for. . . d’Artagnan?”

“Well, me ‘n Aramis, we went in together and got ‘im those new boots he’s been wanting for months,” Porthos said, smiling. “He spends his money on Constance, never leaving enough for ‘imself. We thought it was about time he got rid of the worn-out footgear he calls boots.”

“New boots,” Athos repeated, his lips curling in the corner. “Yes, he’ll like that. . . very much. I told him the soles were wearing down. . . affecting his fighting, his stance. His feet kept slip-slipping, sliding on. . . the smooth surfaces. I didn’t . . . want him to get hurt.”

“With these new boots, he just might make it a _real_ challenge for you in the next sparring match,” Porthos huffed with amusement. “I have to look out for our youngest.”

“Yes, look out for him,” Athos repeated, sadly. “He’s one of the. . . strongest men. . . I know.” The injured man squeezed his eyes shut against the pain stabbing him in the chest, stealing his breath away. Each labored breath, drawn in through his nose, was an exercise of sheer will. How much easier it would be to close his eyes and let go, letting the darkness take him. At least he wouldn’t be in such agony. But what would Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Porthos think of him if he simply gave in and quit? Worse yet, what would his captain think of him? Tears stung his eyes as emotion bubbled in his chest, constricting his lungs even more. He drew in a ragged breath, determined to stay awake.

“D’Artagnan is strong, but with the way ‘e looks up to you, I don’t know. . .” Porthos stopped himself short, unwilling to let his thoughts take him down that morbid path. “I _order_ you to live, dammit! That settles it, plain and simple.”

“You _order_ me?” Athos repeated, chuckling with a scoffing laugh. “I out- outrank you.” He gritted his teeth as he sucked in air through his nose, berating himself for laughing, regardless how slight the laughter.

“Rubbish, seeing that we’re both stuck underneath this rubble, running out of air, I think we’re on even ground right about now.”

“Touché,” Athos said, hinting a smile. “You h-have a point.” 

“Of course, I do,” Porthos playfully retorted. “I’m not just a street fighter, you know.”

“You’re a good soldier. . . a good Musketeer, Por-Porthos,” Athos complimented. “You think w-well on your f-feet," he took a shallow breath. "You’re a damn g-good fighter. You have taught. . . the other men how to be. . . better fighters too.”

“Well, if there’s anything good about growin’ up in the Court, it made me a good fighter,” Porthos said, shaking his head. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him as he mulled over their brief conversation. Athos actually laughed at his so-called _order_ forbidding him to die. “My brother, if I die tonight, at least I’ll die a happy man.”

“What could you. . . p-possibly be happy about?”

“For the first time, since I’ve known you, I heard you laugh. You might’ve been mocking me but. . . I’ll take it.”

~§~

****

**2000 HOURS:**

****“Hold on a minute, I think we’ve broken through!” Aramis yelled, squinting his eyes into the darkness. “Someone hand me a torch, quickly!”

“Here’s one,” d’Artagnan said, passing the torch to Aramis. “Can you see anything? Can you find Athos and Porthos?”

“Mother Mary, I only see more rubble, dammit!” the medic cursed angrily. “We break down one mound, only to find another one behind it. God please, some help down here would be appreciated,” he said, crossing himself.

“Aramis, we’ll find them,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Don’t give in to despair; neither of them would want that. We broke through this mound, so we’ll break through the next one. . . and the one after that. I’m not giving up on our brothers, and neither are you.”

~§~

****

**2200 HOURS:**

****“I wanted to see. . . his face when. . . he open-opened my gift,” Athos whispered in a low voice, shaking his head to wake himself. His chest, his stomach, his hips hurt; bloody hell, his entire body seemed to ache with a dull, but constant throb. “We can’t. . . die, not today. . . not on his bir-birthday. We can’t. . . I can’t do. . . do that to him, or Ar’mis.”

“We’re not going to die. Not today, not for a long damn time,” Porthos said, growling. “We’re going to get out of ‘ere, Athos. You know the captain, and Aramis, and d’Artagnan won’t give up searching for us. They’re not going to let us die in here—you ‘ave to believe that, my brother.”

“I know,” Athos whispered, his low voice reaching his ears only.

“Athos? Athos, don’t you go to sleep on me!” Porthos shook the boot, gripping it tightly with his fingers. “Please, stay with me. We’ve come this far; they’ll be ‘ere soon. . .”

The injured man sighed, wishing that were true. “I could use some wine. . . help dull the p-pain,” he said, deciding to change the subject.

“When we get out of ‘ere, I’m buying wine and ale for all of us, enough to last a couple of days,” Porthos said, closing his eyes at the promise. He would hold himself to that promise, _if_ they managed to get out alive. “We can reschedule d’Artagnan’s birthday party. I don’t think we’ll make it to the Wren tonight, not at this rate.”

Athos let out a small huff of amusement, his smile registering across the pitch-black darkness. “I don’t think. . . they’ll hold our t-table.” The weary, injured man closed his eyes. He felt so tired; he wished for sleep to take him.

~§~

****

**2300 HOURS:**

****“I see one of them!” Aramis called to the group, all still busy removing stones from the pile. “Porthos? Porthos, can you hear me? Where’s Athos?”

Silence.

“They’re not answering,” Captain Tréville said, slipping in next to the medic. “Let me give it a try, Aramis. Athos! Porthos! I want you to answer me right now, and that’s an order!” his voice boomed, echoing through the corridor.

“Captain?” Porthos called out, his voice weak. “Captain, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here, son,” Tréville called, his shoulders drooping with relief. “Are you hurt? Where is Athos? Athos, answer me!”

“He’s here with me, but he’s hurt bad,” Porthos replied, anxiously, still holding on to Athos’ boot. “He doesn’t answer me anymore. . .”

“Hold on, son, we’re almost there.” Tréville tossed aside the remaining stones, not caring where they landed. Finally breaking through the debris pile, he rushed forward to his downed men. “I’m here,” the captain placed his hand gently on the large man’s shoulder. “We’re going to get you out.”

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan exclaimed happily, rushing to his friend’s side. He stood, searching the area. “Where is Athos?”

“He’s over here,” Aramis replied from the pile next to Porthos. “This doesn’t look good; his entire upper body is buried underneath this rubble.” The medic shook his head, silently conveying a frightened, bleak message to his captain.

“Athos, my God,” Captain Tréville said, resting his hand tenderly on his lieutenant’s brow. “Son, can you hear me?”

“I’m checking his pulse,” the medic said, pressing his fingers against the clammy skin. “Athos, come on, give me a sign here. God please. . .”

“I’m. . . I’m st-still here. . . ‘Mis,” Athos’s raspy voice whispered. “What . . what t-took you s-so long?”

“I’m so sorry, Athos, but we had to dig our way through. Thank God, you’re alive! Thank God. Madre de Dios, I thought we had lost you.” Aramis curled his fingers around the back of Athos’ neck and gently squeezed. With a touch, he communicated his message of gratitude, not trusting his voice or his emotions to not break down in a flood of relieved tears. 

“I thought you were gone,” d’Artagnan said, placing his hand on Athos’ lower leg. He glanced over the injured man, his eyes widening with fear at the pain evident on his mentor’s face. The Gascon watched as Athos’ rock-covered chest rose and fell with strained, labored breaths. Cold shivers ran down his spine at the ghostly pallor. _This isn’t good,_ he thought.

“I had. . . a gift for you, but it’s cr-crushed underneath the r-rocks,” Athos whispered, taking in a shuddering breath. “I’m s-sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry, mon ami,” the young Gascon assured, his eyes stinging with tears. “I don’t need any gifts. Finding you both alive, that’s the best birthday present I could ever ask for. I can’t think of anything I’d want more than having my three brothers at my side.”

“Athos, listen to me,” Aramis cut in, knowing that precious time was wasting. “When we remove these stones, the blood is going to come rushing back as your circulation returns,” he paused, “it’s going to hurt like hell. Are you ready for this?”

“Yes,” Athos whispered. “Wait. . .”

“What is it, mon cher?”

“If I d-don’t. . . make it. . .”

“No, we’re not doing this, Athos,” Aramis said resolutely. “You’re going to live; I won’t accept anything less from you. I’m not letting you give up that easily. You’re going to have to fight, but you _will_ fight, mon ami. Promise me that you’ll fight, Athos.”

“I don’t. . .”

“We can’t lose you, Athos,” the medic said, leaning over to whisper in his brother’s ear, allowing no one else to hear. “D’Artagnan can’t lose you, especially not today. His birthday would be a date he’d dread and hate for the rest of his life. Let that be your motivation to fight.”

“Promise us, Athos,” d’Artagnan begged, his throat tightening with emotion. “Promise me that you won’t leave us!”

“I n-need to. . . to b-buy a new p-pocket clock.”

“What?” Captain Tréville asked, his brow creased with confusion. 

“It was his birthday present,” Porthos answered, clearing his throat. “But it's. . . broken.”

“Aw, Athos, you went back to that shop, didn’t you?” d’Artagnan said, choking up with emotion. “It doesn’t matter if the clock is broken, you just keep your promise and you don’t have to buy me anything.” The young Gascon forced a smile, wiping away the tears falling from his eyes. “Having my brother—all of my brothers—here with me today, it’s the only birthday gift I’ll ever need.”

“Happy. . . b-birthday, brother.” Athos closed his eyes, holding back the burning tears. He wanted to hold on, but he was too tired to fight. He allowed the darkness to take him away, and he felt no more. 

“Aramis?” Captain Tréville exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear.

“He’s still with us, Captain,” Aramis said, breathing a sigh of relief. “He just passed out, which is probably for the best. Once we start removing that weight from his chest, it would’ve been pure agony. That amount of pain would send him into shock.”

“Time is wasting then, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said, nodding. “Let’s get started.”

“I’m holding you to that birthday promise, my friend,” d’Artagnan whispered. The Gascon leaned over, leaving a soft kiss on the dusty forehead of his older brother. “Rest now, we’ll be with you when you wake up,” he said, not accepting any other alternative.

The group of men began pulling off the heavy stones covering Athos’ chest and torso. The larger pieces of debris took all three men to move, leaving them panting and wiping sweat from their brows. They managed to clear away all but the smaller rocks and layers of dirt and dust.

While Aramis tended to Athos, the captain and d’Artagnan worked at removing the large, cumbersome stones pinning Porthos’ legs. At the removal of the first chunk of debris, the large Musketeer gasped at the pain it caused. White hot, burning sensations pricked his legs as though a thousand knives were stabbing him repeatedly.

“Damn!” Porthos gasped, just before his head lolled limply forward, mercifully losing consciousness.

“He passed out also,” Captain Tréville announced after a tense moment, sighing at the steady rhythm underneath his fingers. “Alright, let’s get them out of here. This sewer has kept my men prisoner long enough.” 

The bone-weary trio removed the rest of the rocks, freeing the wounded men from their weighted clutch. However, removing the rocks was only half the battle; they still had to get the men out of the sewers and to a doctor. 

“You men, carry Porthos out first,” Captain Tréville called to the nearby Musketeers, waiting to assist. “I’ll need one more over here to help carry Athos.” 

“Be careful with him,” Aramis said, as the four men positioned themselves to pick up Athos. “He has several broken ribs, at the very least, so we need to carry him as level, and as flat as possible. Everyone, watch your step; we cannot risk dropping him.” 

Carefully, the two groups of men carried Porthos and Athos through the narrow tunnels of the sewers. Their pace was unhurried, doing their best to avoid the small rocks still littering the ground, lest they drop their precious cargo. 

The laborious walk to the entrance was agonizingly slow, but still they pressed onward. Together, the Musketeers carried the unconscious men to the end of the tunnel, toward freedom, toward recovery. 

At last, Porthos and Athos were rescued, pulled free from the deathly grasp of the stony underground—a cold, darkened labyrinth that would have been their grave.

~§~

****

**MIDNIGHT:**

"We need two stretchers and a wagon over here, immediately!” Captain Tréville ordered. “Leroux, Bertrand, you two ride ahead to the palace, alert His Majesty to what has happened. Also, I request that his physician is ready to receive and treat the wounded men.”

“Yes sir!” the men acknowledged, quickly riding away.

D’Artagnan looked up at the stars in the night sky, choking back a strangled cry. “Thank you for sparing their lives. I know it’s not my birthday anymore, but I just ask one favor,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he grasped Athos’ limp hand. “Please God, let him live. . . let Athos live.” 

Perhaps the hardest fight of his life still loomed ahead, but Athos had made a promise to d’Artagnan—a birthday promise, no less. The comte was a man of his word, and the Gascon took some comfort in knowing his mentor never broke a promise, but still he worried. Fear gripped his very soul. 

The Musketeers loaded the wounded men in the wagons and climbed in next to their brothers. As the Musketeers rode toward the palace, no one spoke a word; each were lost in their own private thoughts and prayers. 

Indeed, Athos had made a promise, and each of his three brothers would hold him to that promise, accepting nothing less than survival. The group of brothers rode together to an uncertain future, but they were together and, for the moment, it was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Again, a very happy birthday to Mountain Cat. I hope your day was a cherished one. I know the ending was vague: Did Athos make it, did he survive? I'll leave that to your own imagination. Please don't be mad at me... now, back to my book!
> 
> FUN FACT:
> 
> Victor Hugo describes the sewer system underneath Paris in his book, _Les Misérables_. Hugo says, "Paris has another Paris under herself; a Paris of sewers; which has its streets, its crossings, its squares, its blind alleys, its arteries, and its circulation, which is slime, minus the human form."
> 
> The Paris Sewer Museum ( _Musée des Égouts de Paris_ ), is dedicated to the sewer system of Paris. Tours of the sewage system have been popular since the 1800s. Visitors are able to walk upon raised walkways directly above the sewage itself. The entrance is near the Pont de l'Alma.
> 
> An early reference to the pocket watch is in a letter in November 1462 from Italian clockmaker, Bartholomew Manfredi, in which he offers his friend a "pocket clock," as they were known then. By the end of the 15th century, spring-driven clocks appeared in Italy, and in Germany. Peter Henlein, a master locksmith, was regularly manufacturing pocket watches by 1524. Pocket watch manufacturing spread throughout the rest of Europe in the 16th century. Early watches only had an hour hand, the minute hand didn't appear until the late 17th century.


	2. Time Stood Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, the Gascon couldn’t speak. He closed his eyes, grasping the brass clock in his hand, feeling the pinch of glass biting into his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned for this story to be a simple one-shot. However, I left the chapter with a rather precarious ending that left many readers begging for more. Now, while I hadn't planned to continue this, I'd like to oblige the dear, faithful readers who have been so kind with their support. This chapter is shorter than my normal length, as I am making this a bridge to the next chapter - and yes, there will be another chapter... or two. Without further ado, please enjoy!

The wagon rushed through the darkness, racing toward the palace with the injured Musketeers on board. The moon hid behind a canopy of clouds, sliding out on occasion, allowing a wash of light to bathe the occupants in its soft glow. 

Aramis glanced up, catching d’Artagnan’s panic-stricken eyes in the light. The medic pushed aside his own worries to lessen the Gascon’s fear with a quiet whisper of hope. “They’re going to be alright, mon ami.”

“You really believe that?” d’Artagnan asked, exhaling a huff of pessimism.

“We have no other choice _but_ to believe it, d’Artagnan,” Aramis replied resolutely. “I will not believe otherwise, and neither will you.” 

The moon slid behind the clouds, shrouding the wagon in a blanket of darkness once again. Aramis rested his elbows on his knees, buried his head in hands and began to pray. He prayed for forgiveness for lying to his younger brother, but it wasn’t the proper time to reveal harsh facts. The medic knew Athos was in grave condition, and he feared his brother might not survive such extensive injuries. However, he still believed in miracles, and he believed in the power of prayer. 

The wagon pushed on, traveling without incident until the wheels hit a pothole in the road. The men inside gasped at the bone-jarring jolt, sending the occupants into the air and coming down hard on the rough, wooden bed of the wagon. 

“Madre de Dios! Captain, tell that driver to slow down or he’s going to kill Athos before we even get to the palace!” Aramis yelled to Tréville, who was riding alongside the wagon. “Jostling him around like this could cause his broken ribs to shift and puncture his lungs. One more bounce like that and we could lose him!”

“Aramis, I can’t find his pulse,” d’Artagnan called out in a panic. “Dammit, I can’t find his pulse with all this bouncing!”

“Captain, wait! Tell the driver to stop, just stop the wagon, now!” Aramis ordered. The medic shifted his position beside the patient as the wagon slowed and finally stopped. His fingers felt for the artery, pressing down hard against the skin, hoping to detect a thrumming heartbeat. “God please,” he prayed, waiting.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice laced with fear. “Does Athos have a pulse? Aramis. . .?”

“Thank God above,” Aramis replied, letting out a relieved breath. “Yes, there is a pulse. Athos is still with us, thank God, but I don’t know how much more he can withstand.”

“Thank God!” d’Artagnan blurted, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes dry. “He’s a fighter, and he’ll keep fighting. Anyone less would have given up by now, but not Athos. If he can just hold on a little while longer. . .” his voice trailed. 

“How is Porthos?” Aramis asked, shifting focus. Occupying their minds on something other than Athos’ grim condition was a relief, given their helpless situation. Besides, they did have another brother who was also badly hurt, and they worried equally about his welfare.

“I wish we had some light in here; I can barely see my own hand in front of my face,” d’Artagnan said, turning to Porthos. His hands fumbled in the dark, searching over the unmoving Musketeer. At last, his fingers found their way to Porthos’ neck where they rested, waiting for movement under his touch. “His pulse is steady,” he reported, “but he’s still unconscious.” 

“Well, considering the pain this bouncing would have caused him, it’s best that he remains unconscious. Captain, how much longer until we arrive at the palace?” Aramis asked, as the silhouette of his superior officer reappeared at the back of the wagon. “Athos needs to see a doctor—and quickly—but he cannot continue being so dangerously rattled.”

“I’m aware of that, Aramis, but it’s not much further,” Captain Tréville said, leaning low in the saddle to speak into the wagon. “Unfortunately, we cannot possibly avoid all the bumps in the road with so little light. See that you protect Athos and Porthos as best you can, gentlemen. I’ll ride in front of the wagon as a lookout; perhaps that will help. We must get moving.” 

“I don’t know which is worse, knowing they were trapped under all those heavy stones or this wagon ride,” d’Artagnan said over his shoulder to the medic. “If only the palace had been closer.”

“Athos wouldn’t have lasted much longer underneath the weight of that debris, but this rough ride isn’t doing him, or Porthos, any favors. It’s a small blessing they’ve both been unconscious during this ride,” Aramis said, his voice plagued with worry. “The less they suffer, the better.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan fell sideways as the wagon jerked forward, finally moving again. The men lay on the floor, wrapping their arms protectively around their brothers, holding them firm, and cushioning them with their bodies. 

As they rumbled along in the darkness, d’Artagnan whispered in Porthos’ ear, hoping his words of encouragement were heard somehow. With every bump and bounce, the younger man assured his big brother that he was there protecting him, keeping him safe. “I’ve got you, mon cher. I won’t let anything more happen to you. . . I promise.” 

The moon slipped out from behind the clouds, illuminating the wagon with a partial glow. The Gascon could just make out the shapes of the unconscious men, lying still but for the rocking motion of the vehicle. He turned his head to inquire after Athos but paused, thinking it best to leave the medic to his work. 

Aramis was sitting up, half-draped over Athos, with his ear pressed down on his brother’s chest. He listened to the rapid heartbeat, while grimacing at the crackling, wheezing sound of every breath. “Hold on for me, Athos,” Aramis whispered, pleading. “It’s not much further, just keep fighting; you’re doing so well. Remember, you have a promise to keep to d’Artagnan.”

**

~§~

**

The wagon slowed, stopping at the front steps of the palace. The king’s physician waited to receive the patients in the doorway, relaying information to His Majesty who had wished to remain inside, away from the chilly air. 

Palace laborers offloaded the patients, with Aramis and d’Artagnan following closely behind, keeping a watchful eye on their injured brothers.

Doctor Bouvier help his lantern up, inspecting the patients as they were carried inside. “Take them upstairs, quickly!” The doctor took in a sharp breath at the alarmingly pale features of the Musketeer lieutenant, but kept his grim thoughts to himself.

“May we put them together in the same room?” d’Artagnan asked, motioning his head toward Porthos. 

“Of course, we already have the room prepared,” Doctor Bouvier replied. He stood back, allowing the litter bearing Porthos to pass. The group of men bearing the large Musketeer panted, breathing hard as they ascended higher up the stairs. “Whew, this one is a rather large gentleman, isn’t he?” said one of the stretcher bearers.

“Captain Tréville, I will not be staying with the men, as there is little I can do but watch,” King Louis said from the top of the staircase. “However, I expect a full report after my Musketeers have been treated. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville said, bowing low. “I will report as soon as I have definitive word of their condition, Sire.”

“Very well,” the king said, waving his hand as he walked away. “Carry on, Captain.” 

“Your Majesty,” the captain said, bowing once again.

The patients were carried into a spacious bedchamber brightly lit with lanterns and candles. Athos was laid atop a large wooden table where the physician would be seeing to his more pressing, critical wounds. Porthos was transferred to the bed where d’Artagnan assisted a nurse in immobilizing the broken leg with a splint, and then elevating it with pillows until the doctor could tend to him.

Aramis and the captain set to work undressing Athos, removing his weapon’s belt and doublet. When the leather garment was opened, rocks, dirt, and pieces of metal fell out, cascading over the table and falling to the floor. Surprise marked many of the faces as they watched the debris scatter around their feet. Shiny, broken pieces fell to the floor with a soft tinkle of metal. 

“What in the world could all of this be?” Doctor Bouvier asked, glancing down at the broken pieces glinting in the candlelight.

D’Artagnan bent down, taking in a gasped breath as he picked up the round brass timepiece. The glass face was shattered, with tiny shards jutting out from the edge like spikes of ice, clear and sharp. He ran his finger along the numbers, wincing as an unseen shard sliced his finger, smearing the brass with drops of blood.

“Merde!” d’Artagnan cursed as he inspected the timepiece closer, his jaw dropping open. 

“What is it, d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked, his brow knitted with concern.

For a moment, the Gascon couldn’t speak. He closed his eyes, grasping the brass clock in his hand, feeling the pinch of glass biting into his palm.

“D’Artagnan, what is it?” Captain Tréville asked, resting his hand gently on the Musketeer’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

“Why did DuBois have to run into that damned sewer? Why?!” 

“Son, I can’t answer that, other than DuBois was calculating and desperate.”

D’Artagnan squeezed the broken time piece harder, wincing at the pain it caused. He raised his hand, surprised at seeing the brass smeared with his own blood. His wide eyes shifted to the table, focusing on the blood streaking across Athos’ skin; his breath hitched, knowing the fallen rocks had almost buried his brothers alive. “I need some air,” d’Artagnan rasped, handing Captain Tréville the clock before rushing into the hallway. 

Tréville turned the bloodied time piece over in his palm, gasping at seeing the slender hour hand nearly broken in half, the metal oddly bent. “My God,” he muttered, his face paling. His hand shook as he handed the clock to Aramis before rushing from the room to check on d’Artagnan.

“Aramis, if I may ask, what is that?” Doctor Bouvier asked.

"It's a pocket clock," Aramis replied sadly. He squinted his eyes, trying to read the inscription, "Happy Birthday, d'Ar. . ." The medic rubbed his thumb over the letters, stained with blood, and nearly scraped away by the rocks. "Athos told me he was dropping by the shop to pick it up this morning; he was going to give it to d'Artagnan for his birthday."

“So, that’s why the young man is so upset,” the doctor whispered in realization.

“Madre de Dios!” the medic exclaimed, as he turned the clock over in his hand. Aramis leaned heavily on the table, bending at the waist to ride out the sudden wave of dizziness. He felt his heart pounding inside his chest as his eyes focused on the broken hour hand, stopped at half past two. The exact time of the explosion. 

**

~§~

**

“D’Artagnan, listen. . .” Captain Tréville stopped as the young man turned to speak, but couldn’t get the words to form. 

A sudden surge of grief slammed into the Musketeer, nearly folding him at the waist. D’Artagnan crumpled against the wall, allowing gravity to pull his body bonelessly to the floor. Emotion bubbled from his chest and overflowed in a gush of guilt, fear, and grief.  
He leaned forward, resting his forehead on his drawn-up knees, and cried until he was out of breath.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'd like to thank all the readers who encouraged me to continue this story. Also, while I'm a stickler for regular updates, this one may be my first irregularly updated story. I do have most of chapter 3 done, but it needs more work. I hope to have it published sometime next week, depending on work & obligations. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though short. I appreciate your comments, favorites and follows; and, as always, your encouragement and support!


	3. Blood Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the next room, the life of a beloved family member hung on the very precipice of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'd like to thank all of you for the lovely comments and kudos. Your encouragement means the world to me, so thank you! I'm sorry my updates on this story aren't as regular as with my previous stories, but it's a WIP; I appreciate your patience.   
> Secondly, I'd like to thank my dear friend, Mountain Cat, for her proofreading, ideas, and input on this chapter (and chp2); you've helped make your own birthday story sweeter!

Captain Tréville hung his head after d’Artagnan collapsed to the floor; his heart filled with sadness, sharing in the young man’s grief. As captain of the Musketeer regiment, he was responsible for the lives and welfare of his men, and he cared deeply for all of them. However, there was something _special_ about his lieutenant. 

The swordsman had come to the regiment stoic and sullen, hiding from a mysterious, and tragic past. Though Tréville’s concern was for every man under his command, he had a deeper fondness for Athos than he would ever openly express. The regiment was his family, but Athos was the son he never had. 

The captain’s heart ached for the youngest Musketeer who idolized his mentor, as well as his big brother, Porthos. Tréville knew the connection between the _Inseparables_ and d’Artagnan was strong. The quartet of Musketeers had a bond that went deeper than soldiering. They were a family; they were brothers. 

But in one cruel and twisted turn of events, a deliberate act by a fugitive had very nearly torn their family apart. In the next room, the life of a beloved family member hung on the very precipice of death.

“Son, I know you’re worried—we all are. I also know you have every reason to be upset, but we cannot give in to our fears. Athos is determined; he’s stronger than any man I know. If anyone can survive such a heinous attack, it’s him,” Captain Tréville said, resting his hand on the Gascon’s slumped shoulder. “But Athos is stronger with the support of his brothers at his side. He needs you in there, d’Artagnan, and Porthos needs you. Come, let’s go hear what the doctor has to say,” he gently squeezed the shoulder, smiling. 

D’Artagnan looked up at his captain, blinking back the blur of tears and nodded. He reached up, accepting help to his feet. He squared his shoulders before walking into the room, ready to face the physician and his news of Athos, come what may.

**

~§~

**

“Gentlemen, I know this isn’t going to be easy to hear, but I will not mollify the grim details,” Doctor Bouvier said. 

A collective groan echoed around the room. “Just be honest with us, Doctor,” Tréville said, giving a nod to continue. “How bad is it?”

“Well, the good news is that neither lung has not collapsed, but his lungs are most certainly injured—probably bruised. I am hearing cracking and wheezing noises when I listen to his chest, especially on the left side.” 

“Yes, I heard the same,” Aramis chimed in agreement. “I am surprised the broken ribs didn’t shift and tear his lungs, considering we had a rather rough ride here to the palace.”

“Ah, I see you have some medical knowledge, yes?” the doctor asked.

“Aramis is the regiment’s medic,” answered the captain. “His experience with injuries range from minor cuts to traumatic gunshot wounds; his knowledge is extensive, and quite impressive, I might add. He has my complete confidence, and he has the confidence of His Majesty, the king.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Aramis whispered, lowering his head as he blinked back the moisture in his eyes. _If only I could have done more for Athos in the tunnel, or in the wagon,_ he thought sadly.

“Then I would appreciate your assistance, Aramis. We must begin surgery quickly; Athos is very critical,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to candid here, gentlemen, he’s lucky to be alive.” 

“Doctor, in the tunnel, Athos was coughing up blood,” Aramis informed the physician with concern. “How is he coughing up blood if a lung hasn’t been punctured?”

“When a patient suffers trauma to the chest, a common injury is a bruised lung—a result of the lung’s capillaries bursting from a crushing blow. Athos’ chest cavity is filling with blood and it’s putting pressure on his lungs, causing him to wheeze and cough. When he coughs, the blood comes up with it,” Doctor Bouvier explained. “I will make a small incision in his side to drain his chest, and he should be able to breathe easier. We must get started immediately; there is no time to waste.”

Doctor Bouvier asked his assistants to fetch hot water, plenty of fresh towels and bandages, and his surgical kit. In the meantime, the doctor began cutting away the linen shirt, stained red and caked with sweat and dirt. Collective gasps sounded as the shirt was removed, revealing a deep purple bruise covering the left side of Athos’ chest and circling down around his side to his back. Small, bleeding cuts criss-crossed his chest; tiny shards of glass protruded from his skin and glistened in the candlelight.

“Mother of God,” Aramis exclaimed, crossing himself. “You can see where the clock was practically smashed into his chest!”

“I’m afraid the glass will have to wait,” the doctor said, while examining the extent of the injury. “This large bruise confirms my suspicions of the contused lung. Blood is collecting underneath his skin due to the crushing rocks.” 

“Would a bruised lung cause _all_ that bleeding though, Doctor?” Aramis asked, motioning with his finger over the torso of his brother.

“There could be other injuries as well,” Doctor Bouvier admitted as he continued to check Athos’ chest. He ran his fingers gently along the ribcage, counting aloud as he found multiple broken ribs. “Oh dear,” the doctor said, wincing as he discovered the new injury. 

“What is it, Doctor?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Athos has a dislocated shoulder, here on the right,” the doctor said, running his fingers around the joint. His brow furrowed as he continued running his hands down the right arm. “It appears he also has a broken forearm, near the wrist.”

“A dislocated shoulder isn’t hard to treat,” d’Artagnan said, nodding to the doctor. “My father suffered a dislocated shoulder when a spooked horse ran into him, knocking him to the ground. The doctor popped it back into place and said that he would be sore, but it would heal in a few weeks.”

“Yes, it is an injury easily repaired,” the doctor agreed. “Athos will have a sore shoulder for several weeks, but there should be no permanent damage. Now, let’s get that shoulder back in place.”

“What do you want me to do?” Aramis asked.

“If you would hold Athos down, keeping his left shoulder flat on the table, I will reset the dislocation,” the doctor instructed, waiting until the medic was in position. “Alright, I will raise his arm up and slide the joint back into. . . place.” Doctor Bouvier smiled as the ball popped back into the shoulder socket. “That wasn’t too bad, was it? Now, we will have to secure this arm once it is cast. . .”

“Doctor, I think he’s coming around,” Aramis suddenly announced with alarm. “Dammit, he’s struggling. . . he can’t breathe!”

Athos made gurgling noises, as though he had been pulled out of water. His chest heaved with the struggle, coughing and gasping for air. His heartbeat quickened; his eyes were wide, conveying panic and fear.

“Doctor, we have your tools and supplies here,” a nurse said, placing the requested items on a nearby table.

“And not a moment too soon,” the doctor muttered, rushing to get his kit. “Captain Tréville and d’Artagnan, if I could get you to stand on each side of the table to hold him down. Be careful of that shoulder on the right. . . and watch the glass!”

“Of course,” the men chimed together, moving into position. Captain Tréville placed his hands firmly on Athos’ left shoulder, while d’Artagnan wasn’t sure where to place his hands, until deciding that the upper arm and hip would suffice. 

Athos writhed on the table, gasping for breath but not finding air to fill his lungs. “Can’t br. . .” he gasped, letting out a strangled cough, spraying droplets of red over his chest and the arms holding him down. 

“Doctor, _do_ something!” d’Artagnan shouted, his eyes growing wide in horror. “His lips are turning blue!” 

“Yes, we must drain his chest immediately!” Doctor Bouvier exclaimed.

“Athos, it’s going to be alright,” Captain Tréville said, trying to calm his lieutenant, who continued to struggle. “You must stop moving, or you’ll hurt yourself!” The captain did his best to hold the patient still, as fear knotted inside him. “Athos, hold still and let us help you. I’m here with you, son,” he whispered in the swordsman’s ear.

Athos heard a voice, distant and muffled, as though his head was submerged under water. The voice called to him, but he couldn’t understand. His lungs burned. Pain flared as he gulped for air; his chest felt heavy, weighed down with the stones again. He was certain he was drowning and no one could save him. He closed his eyes, feeling his body being pulled down as to a watery grave.

“Aramis, quickly sanitize the area between his fifth and sixth rib,” Bouvier instructed. “I will make my incision to start draining his chest. Hurry!”

Aramis drained the bottle of brandy over Athos’ side, using a towel to catch the liquid and wipe the skin clean. He fetched another towel to dry the area, nodding to the doctor to begin.

Doctor Bouvier took the scalpel and cut a small incision between the ribs, causing an immediate gush of blood to pour out, cascading over the table and splashing onto the floor.

Athos’ eyes shot open as he half-gasped, half-gargled in pain. He attempted to buck and raise himself from the table, but strong hands held him down. Searing pain seized him, burning in his side; he wanted to pull away, but couldn’t move. His ears buzzed as his consciousness wavered, teetering on the edge of darkness. Spots danced in front of his eyes before his world went black, and his struggling body fell limp.

“He’s lost consciousness,” the doctor stated, releasing a relieved breath. He had his fingers pressed against the throat of the patient where he found a rapid, pounding pulse. Doctor Bouvier pressed his ear to Athos’ chest, carefully avoiding the shards of glass. “The blood needs to drain more quickly or his lung will collapse from the pressure. I can insert a chest tube to further drain the blood and fluids putting pressure on that lung,” he announced, retrieving the item from his bag.

Blood from the incision continued to drain, pooling over the tabletop and dripping onto the floor. Athos’ face was ghostly pale, matching the color of the sheets and towels not already stained red with blood.

The doctor carefully inserted the rubber tube into the incision, allowing more blood to flow from deeper within the chest cavity. Satisfied, the doctor took a moment to listen to the breathing sounds emanating from the patient’s chest before nodding. “It’s working! As the blood drains, it decreases the pressure in his chest and his lungs have more room to expand. He’s breathing a little easier now.” 

“My God, that was too close,” Tréville whispered quietly.

“I thought we were going to lose him,” d’Artagnan said, his voice hitching with emotion.

“May I remind you, he’s not out of the woods yet, gentlemen,” the doctor said. “Let us remove these shards of glass before tending to his broken ribs and other broken bones. I’d also like to place a roll of towels underneath his right side, tipping him so that his chest continues to drain. And then we must take care of his other cuts, some of which may need stitches.”

“But you said he isn’t out of the woods yet, what do you mean? Is there more that we should be worried about?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes searching the doctor’s face for answers.

“It’s just a precaution, but with traumatic internal injuries, sometimes complications arise that do not make themselves known until hours, or days later. We must remain vigilant and not let our guard down too quickly. He has a long road of recovery ahead, gentlemen.”

“And what of Porthos?” Aramis inquired.

“Upon my initial assessment of Porthos, it didn’t appear that he had any internal injuries, which is good. He appears to have suffered mostly cuts and bruises; he also has a possible concussion, as well as the broken left leg. I will give him a more thorough examination, but let us finish with Athos first. We can begin treating Porthos very soon.”

“I am fine, Doctor,” a voice rasped from across the room. “Just take care of Athos.”

“Porthos, you’re awake!” Captain Tréville said, moving to the Musketeer’s bedside. He reached down and gently squeezed the big man’s shoulder, “how are you feeling, son?”

“Like I was run over by a team o’ horses,” Porthos grumbled, wincing in pain. “How’s Athos?”

“Right now, the doctor is draining Athos’ chest,” Tréville replied. “It’s helping him breathe easier, but we still have more work to do. We should be able to see to your injuries soon.”

“No hurryin’ on my account,” Porthos said, taking in a breath. “The nurses have been takin’ good care of me.”

The captain watched with interest as a nurse returned to Porthos’ bedside, carrying a bowl of water and fresh towels draped over her arm. 

“Monsieur Tréville, I’ve been tending to his cuts and bruises,” the nurse said, smiling as she brushed past. “He has quite a cut on the top of his head, which will require stitches, but I am very capable of stitching him up myself; I have many years of experience.”

“I’m glad Doctor Bouvier has such capable nurses,” Tréville said gratefully, giving a polite nod.

“Captain, why is there so much blood?” Porthos asked, after catching a glimpse of Athos for the first time. The big man’s eyes were wide with horror, his mouth agape at the grisly scene. Droplets fell from the table’s edge, spattering across the floor at the doctor’s feet. Boots had carelessly tracked through the gore, smearing the marble floor with stains of red.

“Bloody hell,” Porthos said, wincing at his poor choice of words. “Last thing I ‘member, we were in the tunnel. What happened to Athos? What’s goin’ on? Why is there so much damn blood?” he asked, firing off a string of questions.

“Doctor, I’ll be right back,” Aramis said, waiting for a confirming nod from the physician before taking a seat beside his brother’s bed. “Porthos, listen to me, Athos has suffered some internal injuries caused by the falling rocks. His lungs were bruised and, as a result, his chest was filling with blood; it’s the reason why he couldn’t breathe,” Aramis said, his voice shaking. “We had to open him up to relieve the pressure, and all that blood had to go somewhere. The good news is, now that the blood is draining out, he can breathe easier.”

“He doesn’t look so good to me,” Porthos grumbled, finding the good news hard to believe. The streetfighter stared at Athos, his pale, unmoving body streaked with rivulets of blood. “Are you sure he’s goin’ to be alright?”

“Yes,” Aramis quickly replied. “I hope so,” he added under his breath.

“Aramis,” the doctor called to the medic. After having removed the shards of glass, Bouvier was ready to tend to the broken bones. “Do you want to watch how I cast a broken limb? I employ the same components—a mixture made of wax, cardboard, parchment, and cloth—that the legendary Ambroise Paré used. First, we dip the cloths in the mixture, and then wrap them around the limb, and once that is done, we simply allow the cloths to dry until hardened. As a medic, you never know when this knowledge might be useful.”

“Yes, I’d be most interested in learning how to set a cast,” Aramis replied, his eyes shining. “Try to get some rest, Porthos,” the medic whispered to his brother. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re done with Athos.”

“Just take care of ‘im, Aramis.”

“You know I will, mon cher.”

**LATER:**

After the team had finished tending to Athos, the men worked at setting and casting Porthos’ broken leg. The large Musketeer was relatively quiet, keeping his eyes fixed on his unconscious brother lying just a few feet away. 

“Are you going to leave Athos lyin’ on ‘at table over there?” Porthos asked, as the doctor wrapped his leg with the cast material. “What if he wakes up and rolls off? Why don’t you put ‘im here on the bed with me, there’s plenty of room?”

“We weren’t going to leave him on the table, were we?” d’Artagnan asked, wondering. “Were we, Doctor?”

“Why, of course not, gentlemen,” the doctor replied with a reassuring smile. “I was leaving him there, for the time being, while I tended to Porthos; the less we disturb Athos, the better. However, moving him may be a challenge.”

“Moving Athos will take careful maneuvering,” Captain Tréville agreed, “but. . .”

“We must move him without shifting his broken bones,” the doctor insisted, interrupting the captain.

“We can move him the same as we did in the sewers,” Aramis said, nodding to the captain. “We didn’t have a stretcher when moving him out of the tunnel, but we had no other choice. If we can keep him flat, we can move him, the same as we did before.” 

“Alright, but before you move him,” the doctor began, motioning with his head to the table, “we must remove that drainage tube. We cannot risk causing injury if the tube should slip and tear internal tissue.” 

Porthos closed his eyes at being reminded of the sewers, tuning out the conversation. His mind took him back to the tunnels; he tensed as the familiar feeling of claustrophobia gripped his chest. Once again, he was trapped in the pitch-black darkness, frightened by the possibility he and Athos wouldn’t survive. The Musketeer let out a long breath, trying to control the nausea churning in his stomach.

He shuddered, remembering the despair as each hour passed in the tunnels. Memories washed over him like a wave, flooding his mind with despondency and trepidation. Despite his encouraging words to Athos, he hadn’t really believed they would make it out alive; the tunnels would be their grave.

As a soldier, Porthos had accepted that one day he might die on the battlefield for King and Country, but to die in the dark, in a collapsed tunnel, was beyond unimaginable. No one deserved such a lonely, miserable death—especially not his brother, Athos. 

Porthos remembered Athos’ struggle to breathe, fighting to live so he wouldn’t mark his younger brother’s birthday with such tragedy. He had promised to survive, but how much longer could Athos hold on to that promise? The street fighter pushed the morbid thoughts aside, trying to ignore the stabs of fear and negativity. If Athos had made it this far, surely, he could make it another hour, another day. He wouldn’t accept anything less from his brother.

“Porthos. . .? Porthos, are you listening?” Aramis asked, snapping his fingers in front of his brother’s face. “Are you alright, mon ami? You looked as though you were a world away.”

“I was back there,” Porthos whispered, “in the tunnels.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Porthos. . .” d’Artagnan began, but was interrupted by the physician.

“Young man, if it would be easier for you,” Doctor Bouvier interjected with concern, “then we can move your friend Athos to another room, rather than here on the same bed with you.”

“Rubbish! No, I want Athos here where I can see ‘im,” Porthos strongly objected. “Down there, in the sewers, I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel him next to me. I kept my hand on his foot so he would know I was still there—that he wasn’t alone,” he said, his voice cracking. He shook his head, unable to continue.

“I don’t think it would be wise to put Athos in a room by himself,” Aramis agreed. “When he wakes up, and he _will_ wake up,” the medic reassured Porthos, “there is a good chance that Athos may think he’s still in the tunnels, and if we’re not there. . .”

“Exactly why Athos will stay in here, Doctor,” Captain Tréville resolved, knowing his injured lieutenant would need the strength and support of all his brothers. “My men recover faster, and more effectively when they are together. This isn’t up for debate; the matter is settled.”

“Then, by all means, let us get Athos moved to the bed, shall we?” Doctor Bouvier said, accepting the captain’s assessment.

“Might as well get settled in too,” Aramis said, softly. “It’s going to be a long night.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pulmonary contusion, or bruised lung, is caused by blunt trauma (such as car accidents when chest hits dash/steering wheel), even bomb blasts/shock waves can cause PC. A bruised lung occurs when the capillaries burst, filling the chest cavity with blood and excess fluid, and interfere with the lung's ability to expand. Symptoms of a bruised lung are: painful/difficulty breathing; cracking/wheezing sounds when breathing; bloody sputum and/or coughing up blood. Even today there is no known treatment to speed healing but "supportive care," i.e. monitory respiratory function, use of humidifiers, supplementary oxygen.
> 
> In the 16th century, French surgeon Ambroise Paré (1510-1590) established guidelines to determine treatment of thoracic wounds. Paré believed a wound should be opened if there was blood in the chest because if closed, the blood would "decompose and putrefy." He would keep the wound open two or three days while blood drained out, and then close the wound as drainage stopped.
> 
> The Cast: Orthopedic casts date back to Ancient Egypt and Ancient Greece. Hippocrates was first to have a form of physical therapy, believing that exercise with stiffened bandages (constructed from waxes and resins), was the proper medicine to help heal a fracture. Over the next 1500 years, the only changes to cast mixtures would be the hardening agents—such as flour, eggs, and animal fat. The great Ambroise Paré discovered better cast material with wax, cardboard, cloth, and parchment, and were left to harden until dried. This cast type would be used until the 19th century.


	4. Self Doubt and Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I should have been able to help Athos when he was struggling to breathe, but I couldn't. I felt completely helpless out there, d'Artagnan!" Aramis admitted, balling his fists. "I've never felt so damned helpless!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting to have another chapter up so quickly, but this one seemed to have a life of its own... and the boys had their own ideas of how it should end! I hope you don't mind that I gave the boys a little respite from the angst; they certainly deserved a break. Again, I extend my thanks to Mountain Cat for proofreading this chapter - Thank You! 
> 
> Happy St. Patrick's Day to all... May the wind always be at your back!

**LATER THAT NIGHT:**

The bedchamber was dark but for the soft moonlight and glow of the burning candles. Shadows of the men, slouched in their chairs, loomed large on the walls, dancing in the flickering candlelight. The somber mood of the brothers matched the eerie darkness in the room. 

Soft crackling and popping of the wood burning in the fireplace joined with the ticking of the table clock, providing a soothing background noise that went unnoticed. Instead, Aramis and d’Artagnan sat with their hearts in their throats, listening to every wheezing gasp, and anxiously waiting for Athos to take his next breath. . . and the next. 

Worry was constant. Fear thrived, digging its talons deeper into the hidden recesses of their imagination. Neither man looked at the other, though they mirrored each other in thought and posture. Their pose was dour and despondent; their faces gloomy, and shadowed by the darkness. The Musketeers sat withdrawn, as in their own private world. 

Aramis stared at the pale, ghostly face of Athos, his brow knitted in deep concentration. He would swear his brother’s face glowed in the partial darkness, his pallor a constant reminder of his grave condition.

The medic’s eyes shifted to the still form of Porthos, his head turned to face Athos, as though watching over his brother as he slept. Lines of pain marked the large man’s face, occasional moans escaping his lips, though he remained asleep. 

Aramis was startled at a sudden outburst from d’Artagnan, who had lost his patience with the anxiety tearing at his thoughts.

“I can’t do this, dammit!” d’Artagnan growled, abruptly standing up from his chair. He ran a shaking hand through his tousled hair, as he paced nervously beside the bed. The Gascon stopped, his eyes darting around the room for a distraction, anything to get his mind off the foreboding thoughts that haunted his mind.

“There are no books in here,” Aramis huffed, forcing a smile. “I already checked.”

“I keep waiting for the next ragged breath, and if I can’t hear it, my heart skips, thinking he’s stopped breathing!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, resuming his pacing.

“I thought I was the only one thinking such grim thoughts,” Aramis said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“No, mon ami, it’s all I can think about,” d’Artagnan admitted softly. “My ears keep playing tricks on me; so I stare at him, watching his chest move up and down. . .”

“I can still hear it,” Aramis whispered, his head hanging low. 

“Hear what?”

“I can still hear those sounds,” Aramis replied softly. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands for a moment. “I can’t get the sound of his strangled breaths out of my mind—the desperate choking and gurgling. Mon Dieu, I thought we were going to lose him.”

“I thought so too,” d’Artagnan agreed, his voice filled with understanding. “I keep going over what happened in my mind; I wonder if we could have done something different out there, you know? Could we have secured the palace better so that DuBois couldn’t have escaped? Could we have gone after him quicker?”

“I’ve wondered if we could have gotten to them sooner also. In fact, the very idea of it is haunting me,” Aramis admitted, revealing his own self-doubt. “Were we too slow in rescuing them? Could I have done more for Athos to help ease his suffering?”

“We both sound pathetic,” d’Artagnan said, sighing. “Maybe you should take a break, huh? Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air?”

“I was about to suggest you do the same,” Aramis said, looking up with pained eyes. 

“No, I can’t leave,” d’Artagnan countered, shaking his head. “I _won’t_ leave. I’m afraid that the minute I leave the room, Athos will. . .” he stopped short, deciding not to voice his dark thoughts.

Aramis was quiet for a moment. He let his head hang, shoulders slumping forward as he let out a slow breath. Finally, he looked up at d’Artagnan, blinking back the moisture stinging his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“What is it, Aramis?”

"I should have been able to help Athos when he was struggling to breathe, but I couldn't. I felt completely helpless out there, d'Artagnan!" Aramis admitted, balling his fists. "I've never felt so damned helpless! Now that he's recovering, I'm afraid to leave his side. If something were to happen to him and I wasn't here," Aramis paused, "I would never forgive myself. I should have been there for him—for them."

“It’s not your fault, Ar’mis,” Porthos whispered softly, his open eyes watching his brother with concern. “If you had been with Athos ‘n me in the sewers, you would’ve been lyin’ here hurtin’ the same as us. There’s nothin’ you could’ve done to prevent what ‘appened.”

“What if Athos had stopped breathing in that tunnel?” Aramis asked, standing up suddenly from his chair. “I wouldn’t have been able to help him; I didn’t even have my medical kit with me!”

“But you _did_ help him, Aramis,” d’Artagnan insisted adamantly. “You kept him alive down in that tunnel and on the wagon ride here. Don’t you _dare_ take the blame for Athos’ condition. If you want to blame someone, blame that bastard DuBois!”

“It sounds like you both need to step out ‘n get some air,” Porthos suggested, doing his best to stifle a yawn. “I’ve got Athos covered, why don’t you take a break. . . both of ya.”

“No way, I’m not leaving,” the two men echoed together.

“Then stop makin’ matters worse by blamin’ yourselves for somethin’ you couldn’t control,” Porthos growled, impatiently. “D’Artagnan’s right, the only one to blame is DuBois, but now is not the time to argue ‘bout it. If you two don’t stop your fussin’, I’ll kick you both out of ‘ere.”

“Oh, you think so, brother?” Aramis said, chuckling lightly.

“I’m not going anywhere!” d’Artagnan said resolutely, folding his arms and plopping down in his seat. “Are you going anywhere, Aramis?”

“Nope, I’m right where I need to be,” Aramis resolved, also taking his seat. “I’m not leaving, mon cher.”

“That’s more like it,” Porthos whispered, his lips curling into a smile. 

“He did that on purpose,” Aramis said to d’Artagnan, winking with amusement.

“Think our fretting made him a little grumpy,” d’Artagnan replied in a whisper.

“Not sssleep yet; still hear you.”

“Uh, Aramis?”

“What?”

“What do you think Porthos meant by kicking us both out of here?” d’Artagnan asked, eyebrows raised in wonder. He bit his lip to keep from snickering out loud.

“Now that’s a good question, my young brother,” Aramis answered, clearing his throat. “Seeing that Porthos has a cast on his leg, it would be rather difficult.” 

“Just wait until I get this cast off. . .”

“Ah, but that’s going to be a while, brother,” Aramis said, giving a wily smile.

“If I could just get up off this bed,” Porthos feigned a growl.

“I think we could both outrun him,” d’Artagnan interjected.

“Now I know how the cap’n feels,” Porthos mumbled under his breath. “Where is the cap’n, anyway?" he asked, his tired eyes searching the room. 

“He went to update His Majesty on your and Athos’ condition,” d’Artagnan answered, setting aside the jokes. “He said that he’d be back shortly.”

“Glad His Maj’sssty car’sss. . .” Porthos slurred, relaxing as he fell asleep.

“All for one,” Aramis whispered, squeezing Porthos’ leg, softly, as not to wake him. “Rest, my brother; we’ll be here when you wake up.”

The room was quiet as the two men fell back into the routine of watching over their brothers while they slept. Their brief respite of humor was now forgotten, while the worry returned like a wave, crashing over them, and grounding them on the slippery sands of despair. 

Like watchful parents, their eyes focused in on the patient’s faces, watching for discomfort or pain; their ears listening, attuned to any sound of alarm. They listened as the wheezing breaths of one brother mixed with the soft snores of the other. Neither man spoke but sat quietly, losing themselves in their own private thoughts once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoyed the little ray of humor at the end. Thank you for your patience with this story; I'll try to update again next week!


	5. A Return to the Tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Captain, what happened down in the sewers may leave scars that only time will heal, and that is _if_ they ever fully heal. A physician cannot diagnose emotional injuries harbored inside a patient’s mind. It’s apparent that Athos’ physical wounds will heal long before his emotional scars even begin to mend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I thank you all for your patience with this story, and for sticking with me. I'm thrilled you enjoyed the respite from the angst in the last chapter, but life moves along. . . it's time to start working through some issues! Thank you to Mountain Cat for proofreading and catching my mistakes.

**TWO DAYS LATER, PALAIS du LOUVRE:**

“I’m beginning to wonder if he’s ever going to wake up,” d’Artagnan groaned, rubbing his fingers back and forth across Athos’ hand. “We’ve done everything Doctor Bouvier has told us to do, and Athos hasn’t so much as twitched.”

“He’s not going to wake up at our command, d’Artagnan!” Aramis snapped, angrily. “These things take time, which you should know by now.”

“Yes, Aramis, I know it takes time, but it’s been two days!” d’Artagnan responded sharply. “The doctor said that there could be complications, but how are we going to know if he doesn’t wake up?”

“I _heard_ what the doctor said, but his body needs time to rest,” the medic said, through clenched teeth. “Let us not start fabricating complications before they happen.” 

“I think this discussion has gone on long enough. . .” Porthos began, but was interrupted. 

“We’re just sitting here doing nothing!” d’Artagnan shouted, his face reddening. “What if there’s something wrong?”

“And what do you expect the doctor and me to do when Athos has been unconscious for two days?” Aramis argued back, standing up from his chair so quickly that it fell backward. “You’re not the only one worried about him!”

“Well, you don’t seem too worried right now. . .”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Captain Tréville barked from the doorway of the bedchamber, startling everyone into silence. “I came up here as quickly as I could,” the captain hissed, “His Majesty can hear you two arguing all the way downstairs in his meeting chamber. You’re creating quite a scene—you’re behaving like children!”

“They’ve been at each other’s throats all afternoon,” Porthos interjected angrily, glaring at his two brothers. “If I could get up off of this damned bed. . .”

“I said enough, and that goes for all of you!” Captain Tréville ordered the men. “Listen, I know you all are under a great deal of stress, and that you’re worried about Athos, but yelling at each other is only making the situation worse.”

“I’m sorry, Captain,” d’Artagnan apologized, letting out a long sigh. He wrapped his arms around himself as he rubbed the floor with the toe of his boot. “I’m just tired, I guess.” 

“The cap’n’s right,” Porthos said with a low growl, his jaws clenching. “Ain’t nothin’ good comin’ from you yellin’ at each other like ‘at. How do you think Athos would feel wakin’ up to you two fightin’?”

“You’re right, of course,” Aramis confessed, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Tempers are high, gentlemen; you’re at each other’s throats because you’re functioning on too little sleep,” Captain Tréville said, reminding the men of their two-day vigil. “You’re not doing Athos any favors by running _yourselves_ ragged and to the point of exhaustion. Look, it’s late. Why don’t you both go lie down by the fire and get some sleep? I’ll sit with Athos for a while.”

“Now, ‘at sounds like a plan,” Porthos agreed, “I was getting’ tired of their fightin’.” The Musketeer positioned himself back against his pile of pillows, yawning as he pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I couldn’t get any sleep with all that noise,” he grumbled, but quickly flashed a smile at his two brothers. “I was ‘bout ready to assert order and discipline—by force, if necessary.”

“Ah, we’re going there again, are we, Porthos?” Aramis chuckled.

“If you two kept goin’ at each other like that, I would’ve gotten up off this bed to knock some sense into ya.”

“I don’t doubt you there, mon ami,” Aramis huffed, giving a tired smile. 

“We’re lucky the captain stopped us while we were ahead,” d’Artagnan concurred. “I hate to admit it, but I think Porthos could have taken us—even with that cast on his leg.”

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, mon ami. It’s been a hard couple of days, and neither of us has taken a break,” Aramis admitted, covering his mouth as he yawned. “I’m so damn tired, I can’t see straight.”

“I’m sorry too,” d’Artagnan apologized, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. You look exhausted,” he said, watching his brother with concern. “How about you take the settee, and I’ll take the chair. I’ve fallen asleep in far worse places.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the Gascon said, curling himself into the high-back chair. “I’m too tired to argue anymore.”

Aramis lay back on the settee, propping his head against the large pillow as he watched d’Artagnan, already fast asleep. “That goes for me too, little brother. Sleep well, mon cher.” The medic closed his eyes, falling asleep instantly.

Captain Tréville looked around at his sleeping men and smiled to himself. “Get some rest, gentlemen; it’s my turn to watch over Athos for a while. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with him,” the captain said, taking his seat next to the bed. “Where do I begin, son?”

**LATER:**

It had been hours since the captain had sat down beside his lieutenant, losing track of time while talking. The sun would be rising soon, and since the men had been sleeping so soundly, he didn’t have the heart to wake them; this was the best sleep they’d had in nearly three days.

The captain absently rubbed his thumb over the hand he held in his own as his mind wandered. He stared out the window, counting the stars shining in the clear sky. He sighed, recalling the harrowing ride to the palace in the pitch-black darkness. “If only we could have had the moon and stars to light the way that night. Of course, there’s not a cloud in the sky tonight,” he muttered.

His mind returned to the present, focusing again on Athos. “I’m surprised His Majesty allowed me to stay here at the palace after our meeting this afternoon. I was at the garrison for most of the day yesterday, taking care of administrative duties. I have the senior-ranking men training the new recruits, which keeps them all plenty busy. They have gotten behind on their hand-to-hand training, but our best instructor is. . . otherwise engaged.” 

“The men are also behind on sharpening their shooting skills, but my best instructor in marksmanship is also occupied, and rightly so; I wouldn’t want him anywhere else. The men know how to spar well enough, though my best swordsman isn’t there to train them on footwork and finesse. Between training the recruits, cleaning the garrison, and minor errands, the men have enough work to keep them busy for a few more days,” he huffed lightly.

“It’s been rather quiet around the garrison without you boys; it never ceases to amaze me how much _energy_ you four bring to the regiment. The men really miss you,” he paused, “ _I_ really miss you. You must wake up, Athos; I need my lieutenant back at work. I need my best Musketeers among the ranks again.”

“I’ve had too much time lately to think of what happened down in the sewers,” he said, putting his hand into his worn, brown leather doublet. He pulled out the partially smashed brass pocket clock from his pocket and held it tightly in his palm. “I put this in my pocket the night of your surgery; it’s been with me ever since. I’m not quite sure what to do with it.”

“I don’t know if you would want it back; I would doubt that d’Artagnan would want it now. I suppose I should just throw it away, but yet, it’s a token of that night—a reminder of how close I came to losing you.”

“I haven’t told you how much I appreciate you, and how much I depend on you,” the captain said, pausing to collect his thoughts. “I have no excuse for consistently putting off such a conversation, especially given our line of work. I intended to tell you one day, but I found myself too busy—and there was always tomorrow.”

“This clock stopped almost three days ago,” Tréville’s voice cracked. “My God, I never would have had that talk with you; it would have been too late.” He sat back in his chair, sighing as he searched the stars in the night sky. 

“You’re a fine lieutenant, and you’ll make an outstanding captain one day—the king even said as much this morning. I’m touched at his concern for you and Porthos.”

“I know you don’t aspire to the captaincy, Athos, but I can’t think of any better replacement, and His Majesty agrees.”

“You have excelled as my right-hand man and I need you back, doing the work you were commissioned to do,” the captain whispered gruffly. “I know you will need time to heal from your injuries, but at least give me a sign that you’re going to survive.”

“My work, and my duties must go on, as life goes on, but yet time has stopped,” he looked at the smashed hour hand on the clock. “The men at the garrison ask about you, but I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Athos, won’t you please wake up?”

Athos heard a voice calling, though he couldn’t understand the words. His consciousness was swathed in a thick blanket of fog, muddling his senses. He tried to speak, but only a soft moan escaped his lips. His breathing quickened as the pain suddenly returned; he scrunched up his eyes at the searing agony in his chest. 

His mind was lethargic, as unfocused thoughts reverberated in his skull. Images flashed, teasing his memory. Recollections hung like a vapor in the fog, slowly dissipating and becoming more clear. Slowly, glimpses opened to a panorama of memories.

Athos remembered the explosion; the burning heat and the deafening roar. He recalled his body being thrown backward into the wall. Pain was instant, overwhelming. The tunnel collapsed, burying him under a mass of heavy debris. 

_I can’t breathe!_

_His chest felt heavy, smashed. He clawed at the debris, but it wouldn’t move. He gasped for breath, but only dust filled his lungs. He didn’t want to die, alone and buried under these unyielding stones._

_NO!_

“Athos! Athos, I’m here,” Captain Tréville said, standing to his feet to have more control. “There’s no need to panic,” he said, grasping the lieutenant on both sides of his face, cupping the cheeks in his palms. “Athos, you’re safe at the palace.”

_No! I can’t get out. The tunnels. . . collapsed! I’m trapped! I can’t see. . . it’s too dark. Where is Porthos? No! He was right be-behind me. P-Porthos where are yyyyou? H-help mmmeee, the r-rocks are t-too h-heavyyy. I c-can’t br-breathe. . ._

“Athos! What’s wrong?” 

“I c-can’t br-breathe!” Athos gasped, making a pathetic squeaking sound. His chest heaved with panicked effort to draw in breath. “Cap’n. . .”

“Dammit, Athos!” Captain Tréville yelled, trying to get through to the agitated mind of his lieutenant. “Aramis!” he called over his shoulder, “wake up, dammit! I need your help!”

Porthos startled awake, confused at the yelling and struggling next to him. It took only a moment to realize what was happening before the large man leaned sideways, putting his weight gently across the struggling man’s middle, helping the captain hold him down. 

“Aramis! D’Artagnan, wake up!” Porthos yelled over the bedlam. “Wake up, dammit!” 

D’Artagnan woke up and was instantly on his feet, rushing to the bed. “What happened, Captain? What’s going on? Athos, stop moving! Aramis, we need your help!” 

Aramis rolled off the settee and fell to his hands and knees, dizzy with sleep. He shook his head, trying to clear away the lightheadedness and ringing in his ears. He stood to his feet, but had to lean against the settee for support until the dizziness passed. At last, the medic heard the shouting and saw the men struggling to hold Athos down, and ran to their aid. 

“The rocks are t-too heavy,” Athos cried out, panting for breath. “I c-can’t br-breathe. . . I can’t move. . . I’m tr-trapped!” 

“Mon Dieu, he’s having flashbacks of being trapped in the tunnel!” The medic recognized what was happening; he had experienced much the same after Savoy. He sat on the bed and leaned over Athos, using his weight to help hold the man down. “Athos, it’s me. . . it’s Aramis. You’re not in the tunnels anymore—you’re safe! Please, listen to me, you’re safe!” 

Nurse Maria rushed in, but immediately turned around to retrieve the doctor from down the hall. 

“Hold him down, but watch out for his shoulder and his ribs!” Aramis yelled, leaning forward to whisper in Athos’ ear again. “Athos, you need to hold still or you’re going to hurt yourself. I’m here, brother, I’m here. Don’t be afraid; I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Do you hear me? You’re safe.” 

Doctor Bouvier rushed in and pushed his way to the medic’s side. “Yes, keep talking to him, Aramis; you’re doing good. If Athos keeps this up, his ribs will shift and collapse his lung. Captain, I have some laudanum tincture that I can administer with this small bladder, if you gentlemen will hold him still as possible,” the doctor instructed, as he allowed the medicine to drip into Athos’ open mouth. 

Athos tossed his head side to side, but instinctively swallowed the liquid running down his throat. He gulped for air, coughing and sputtering as suffocation closed in. His eyes were wide with terror as he clawed at the hands holding him down. The fog returned, pulling him down into the abyss; his strength now completely stripped away. He stopped struggling, and allowed his tired, worn body to fall into the welcome darkness. His eyes rolled back into his head as his body collapsed and went limp.

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan cried, alarmed at the sudden lack of movement from his mentor. “Is he alright? Is he breathing?”

The doctor pressed his fingers against Athos’ neck, waiting for a pulse. He nodded, “he has a pulse but,” he paused as he listened to Athos’ chest, “he’s not breathing!” Doctor Bouvier tossed the pillows aside and tilted Athos’ head back, covering his nose as he put his own mouth to the patient and breathed into his body. He pulled up and then breathed more air into Athos’ lungs, repeating the process again and again. He waited, watching until the chest rose and fell with breaths of its own. “He’s breathing again.” 

The group let out a collective cry, emotion washing over them in a flood of relief. No one uttered a sound as they stared at the unconscious patient, as though afraid to peel their eyes away. The once panicking and struggling lieutenant lay still, but for his chest rising and falling with wheezing breaths. 

“Doctor, what. . . what just happened?” Captain Tréville asked, finally breaking the heavy silence.

“When a patient suffers from respiratory arrest, sometimes all that is needed is stimulating respirations to get him breathing again,” the doctor explained. “Breathing is an automatic process, we don’t have to consciously control it. . . but the mind can most certainly make a patient _think_ he is unable to breathe.”

“What are you saying doctor?” Aramis asked, perplexed.

“I’m saying that Athos woke up thinking he was still trapped; in his mind, he _was_ back in the tunnels. He was experiencing the same struggles to breathe—and the same pain from the weight on his chest—as though he was actually underneath the debris again. His nightmare was so vivid, he was reliving that moment.”

“But how does that make someone stop breathing?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Oh, you would be surprised at the power our brain has over our bodies, my young friend,” Doctor Bouvier said resolutely, looking each man in the eye. “I had told you there would be complications and, unfortunately, vivid nightmares are among the reactions stemming from such trauma. I have to warn you gentlemen, this may not be the only time Athos awakens in such a terrified state.” 

“Is he going to stop breathing every time he has a nightmare, Doctor?” Captain Tréville asked, horrified at the thought. “Surely, he can’t go through this every time he dreams!”

“No, but this was the first time he has regained consciousness, and it’s all starting to come back to him. The trauma is so recent, that his lungs may have seized up under the stress. His lungs are quite fragile and we’re lucky they haven’t collapsed from the strain. I believe he only needed the stimulation breaths to get his respiratory system back in proper function. I am hopeful this experience will not repeat itself.”

Porthos plopped back against his pillows. His face was pale, even against the sheets; worry created heavy lines across his brow as sweat rolled in droplets down his skin. He closed his eyes, still panting from the recent exertion. 

“Porthos, are you alright?” Captain Tréville asked, exchanging a nervous glance with Aramis. “Porthos?”

“Athos thinks he’s in them damn tunnels again,” Porthos whispered softly. “One time was bad enough—we can’t go through ‘at again. This is rubbish! How do we get him to _believe_ he’s not down there anymore?”

“Gentlemen, we knew this was a possibility,” Doctor Bouvier said, sighing. “We had better prepare for similar episodes when he awakens again. I can repair the physical wounds, but I cannot repair mental and emotional trauma.”

“Doctor, what are you saying?” Tréville asked.

“Captain, what happened down in the sewers may leave scars that only time will heal, and that is _if_ they ever fully heal. A physician cannot diagnose emotional injuries harbored inside a patient’s mind. No, those wounds remain unseen, revealing themselves only through dreams or other such experiences.”

“What can we do?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes growing wide with fear. “There has to be something we can do for him!”

“Unfortunately, there is little we can do but support him when he wakes up, reassuring him that he’s safe. We must do everything possible to make Athos _know_ that’s he’s not trapped in the tunnels. We can keep it bright in here, lighting several candles to lessen the darkness; we can keep as little covers over him as possible, so that he doesn’t feel restrained.” 

“How long will we have to do this, Doctor?”

“I cannot say, for certain. However, after prolonged, traumatic experiences, such as what Athos and Porthos endured, it may be a long, difficult recovery,” the doctor warned. “It’s apparent that Athos’ physical wounds will heal long before his emotional scars even begin to mend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have been reading my stories for a while, you'll know this isn't the first time I've mentioned mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. This life-saving procedure made its first appearance in my story, _Breathing,_ in which Athos is suffering from a contagious illness. Aramis takes off his surgical, or "Venetian," mask to perform mouth-to-mouth on Athos after he'd stopped breathing.
> 
> I'm including the notes that I used in chapter 10 of _Breathing:_
> 
> Several ancient written accounts of resuscitation have been noted. Such as with Galen (129-199 AD) in which he inflated the lungs of dead animals via the trachea with a fireplace bellows and concluded that the air movement caused the chest to rise.
> 
> In 1472, Paulus Bagellardus published the first book on childhood diseases and described mouth to mouth resuscitation of the newborn.
> 
> Again, the use of a fireplace bellows (the bellows pumped air, much the same as a bike tire pump) was mentioned in a medical journal by Swiss/German physician, Paracelsus (1493-1541). Paracelsus was a revolutionary physician ahead of his own time in medicine and, especially, in chemistry. He is credited for giving zinc its name; and he is credited for the creation of laudanum. He believed that everything in the universe is connected, and so beneficial medicines were to be found in herbs and minerals/chemicals.
> 
> William Tossach in 1745, presented to the _Royal Society of London,_ his results when he resuscitated a coal mining victim overcome by smoke.
> 
> In 1740 the _Paris Academy of Sciences_ officially recommended mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as a means of treating drowning victims.


	6. Ghosts From the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We've all had to deal with ghosts haunting us from our past when we'd just as soon forget about the past and move on. However, if we don't deal with the demons of our past, they will forever control our present and our future."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support of this story. This chapter delves into the after-effects of trauma - it seems there is more to Athos' mysterious past than the boys thought. See the bottom for more notes. Thank you to Mountain Cat for proofreading this chapter!

**NEXT DAY:**

The morning sun streamed through the open window, warming the faces of the sleeping Musketeers. Lively notes from birds singing their good-morning chorus mixed with soft whistles of workers tending the gardens. A gentle breeze carried with it the sounds of life as usual at the elegant Palais du Louvre.

Porthos stirred, waking from a restful sleep. He stared at the ceiling in confusion, momentarily forgetting where he was. Upon remembering, the large Musketeer sat up too quickly and fell back to his pillows, groaning from dizziness. 

“What. . .?” d’Artagnan asked, awakening at the noise, but not opening his eyes. He heard another moan and shot out of his chair, realizing Porthos was awake. “Porthos, are you alright? What’s wrong, mon ami?”

“Porth’sss,” Aramis slurred, stirring awake in his chair. 

“Oi, I didn’t mean to wake everyone,” Porthos muttered to himself. “I just sat up too fast and got dizzy.”

“Well, you did take quite a knock to that hard head of yours, remember?” d’Artagnan said, teasing his brother. 

“Yeah, I ‘member,” Porthos grumbled. He leaned over to watch Athos as he slept and then shook his head in disappointment. “He hasn’t stirred since last night. I wonder when he’ll wake up again?”

“I don’t know, but I hope it’s when the sun is shining,” d’Artagnan replied glumly. The Gascon shuddered, remembering the doctor’s warning of more panicked episodes upon waking, especially in the dark. “At least if he wakes up in the daylight, he might not think. . . well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos said with another moan. He reached up to massage his temples, closing his eyes against the room spinning around him. 

“Porthos, what’s wrong?” Aramis asked, rising from his chair to sit beside his brother. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” 

“No, jusss feel dizzy.”

“When was the last time you had something more substantial to eat than broth?” Aramis asked, realizing the dizziness might be resulting from hunger. “It’s been how many days since you’ve had a good meal, three. . . four?”

“In that case, my timing is perfect,” Captain Tréville said, entering the room with a large tray of food. Two nurses followed, also carrying trays of food and drink for the men. “It’s been several days since any of you have had a decent meal, so go on and enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen.”

“Oi, just what the doctor ordered! It smells damn good,” Porthos said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “I’m starvin’.”

“What brings you to the palace this morning, Captain?” d’Artagnan asked, tearing into his pastry. The Gascon’s face fell, noticing the captain’s sudden frown.

“Captain, you have that _look,”_ Aramis groaned, tossing aside his cheese as a sinking feeling washed over him. “It’s that reluctant look you get when you’re about to tell us something we don’t want to hear.” 

The captain nodded, letting out a long sigh. “The king has an official dispatch he wants delivered to Créteil today,” he informed the men. “His Majesty asked for two men; I volunteered myself, so I need one of you to go with me. With all of you here we are a bit shorthanded.” 

“I’ll go, Captain,” d’Artagnan offered, finishing his tea. “Aramis should stay here and watch over Athos and Porthos, where he’s needed most.”

“But, the doctor can. . .” Aramis began, in protest.

“It is decided,” the captain said, nodding gratefully to the Gascon. “Finish your breakfast, d’Artagnan, and then meet me in the courtyard in fifteen minutes. It’s a short ride; we should be back before nightfall.” Captain Tréville turned on his heel and left the room, his steps echoing down the hall.

“Well, I guess you’re on your own for a while,” d’Artagnan said, stuffing a large bite of bread and cheese into his mouth. “You th’nk you c’n handle ‘em by yoursself?” he teased, with a mouth full of food.

“Handle us?” Porthos repeated with a huff. “Rubbish, Aramis is the one you should watch out for; I’m a saint, compared to ‘im,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling.

“If only Athos could hear you say that,” d’Artagnan quipped, snickering.

“Mngh,” Athos whispered, moaning softly. The swordsman inhaled a slow breath, as though carefully testing his lung’s tolerance. He exhaled through his nose, all the while never opening his eyes. 

“Athos, you’re awake!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, rushing to the bed to grasp his brother’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Hmmm,” Athos groaned, trying to open his eyes but found the effort too taxing. “Tir’ddd,” he slurred. His head lolled on the pillow, as his breaths evened into soft wheezes once again.

“Athos?” Aramis checked the swordsman’s pulse and breathing, being careful not to wake him. “He’s asleep again,” he nodded with satisfaction. “His waking was certainly a welcome surprise, and without any. . .” he stopped short, shaking his head. 

“Well, it was too quick,” Porthos muttered with disappointment.

“Maybe he’s not as bad off as we had thought,” d’Artagnan surmised, raising his eyebrows with hope. “Maybe it was just his initial return to consciousness in the dark that set him off last night. What do you think, Aramis?”

“We can always hope that’s all it was,” Aramis answered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “I do believe that he is healing well enough, and he should be more cognizant of his surroundings as time goes on.” 

“I hope you’re right,” d’Artagnan said, popping the last bite of cooked beef into his mouth. “I also hope this mission doesn’t take too long; I want to be back before tonight. Take good care of him while I’m gone,” he teased Porthos, motioning with his head toward Aramis.

“You wound me, brother,” Aramis said, his hand covering his heart.

“Don’t worry ‘bout us, we’ll be fine ‘ere,” Porthos reassured the Gascon, who was watching his brothers from the doorway. The large Musketeer traded glances with Aramis, before his eyes settled on the sleeping brother lying beside him. 

Porthos scratched his head, as an uneasy feeling churned in his gut, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. Nothing ever seemed to go smoothly for them, and that nagging feeling told him more trouble was headed their way. 

**LATER:**

“What time do ya figure they’ll be back?” Porthos asked, watching the late afternoon sun cast shadows over the gardens below. “How far is it to Créteil anyway?”

“It’s about three leagues southeast, so not too far,” Aramis replied, glancing at the table clock. “They still have some time before it gets dark.”

“To be honest, I wish the sun wouldn’t go down,” Porthos confessed in a whisper, hoping the swordsman wouldn’t hear. “If Athos woke up calmly like he did earlier today, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

As if on cue, Athos softly moaned and began tossing his head from side to side. His left arm went to his chest, grasping and clawing at invisible stones pressing down on his body; he tried to move his right arm but couldn’t, as it was tied to his chest in a sling.

The lieutenant’s eyes darted under his closed lids, searching for an escape from his illusory prison. His breathing quickened, becoming shallow and labored as his heart pounded and raced. Athos gasped for breath, but his lungs felt strangled, constricted. 

“Athos!” Porthos shouted, moving to hold the struggling patient down. “Athos, stop fighting; there’s nothin’ to be scared of. You’re safe with me, brother!”

“Athos, listen to me,” Aramis whispered near the swordsman’s ear. “You’re not in the tunnels. Do you hear me? You’re safe at the palace!”

Athos heard nothing but his pulse pounding in his ears. He was reliving the same hell as three days ago, his mind held hostage by the same terrors that had gripped him in the tunnels. “C-can’t get out. . . I’m tr-trapped!”

“No, you’re not trapped, Athos!” Porthos yelled, as he tapped the swordsman’s cheeks to wake him. “You’re goin’ to stop this right now—you are _not_ in the tunnels!”

“Wake up, Athos!” Aramis pleaded, gently shaking the patient. “Your brothers are here with you; you’re safe.”

“Don’t believe what you’re seein in ‘at head of yours. Wake up!” Porthos ordered, tapping his face a little harder. “It’s only a dream, Athos.” 

Athos suddenly stiffened, grasping hold of his sheet so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He gasped for breath, hopelessly trapped in the throes of an unforgiving nightmare.

“This has gone on long enough!” Aramis exclaimed, having lost his patience. The medic pressed his knuckles down on Athos’ breastbone and twisted, generating the reaction he was hoping for.

Athos’ eyes shot open at the pain on his chest. His free arm reached up to grab Aramis’ hand, squeezing it as he tried to push it away. “S-stop, hursss. . .”

“Good, it’s supposed to hurt, mon cher,” Aramis replied firmly, hoping to penetrate the fog in his brother’s panicked mind. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shirt sleeve, while still keeping his hands firmly planted on Athos’ shoulder and chest. “You were dreaming that you were down there, in the tunnels again. Athos, it’s not real. . . you’re safe at the palace. Porthos and I are right here with you.”

“That’s right, I’m here too,” Porthos assured him, squeezing the back of his brother’s neck, gently. “We got you out of the tunnel, and you’re goin’ to be alright. Aramis and the doctor are takin’ good care of ya.”

“It was. . . it was so real,” Athos whispered, his eyes wide with terror. “I thought I was trapped. . . I couldn’t breathe. I was under the rocks and. . . I couldn’t move!”

“No, we got you out of there days ago,” Porthos assured him. “You don’t remember ‘cause you were out cold.” 

“How. . . how long. . .?” Athos asked, glancing between his two brothers. “How long have I been here?”

“You were seriously hurt, Athos,” Aramis said, sighing as he saw the swordsman tense. “You’ve been here three days.”

“I have to get out. . . out of here,” Athos said, attempting to sit up. “I can’t s-stay. . .”

“Athos, what in the bloody hell are you goin’ on about?” Porthos growled, pushing down on his brother to keep him in place. “Did you not hear what Aramis just said? You were seriously hurt, and you’re in no shape to go trudgin’ off someplace. I know you took a knock to that head of yours, but ‘at’s just damn foolishness!”

“I want to get out. . .” Athos repeated, his wide eyes nervously darting around.

“Merde, he’s still groggy; he’s not comprehending what we’re saying,” Aramis cursed, realizing Athos was suffering from the after-effects of the nightmare. “Listen to me now, you need to let it go,” he said, cupping Athos’ face in his hands. “You are not dreaming anymore! The dream—the nightmare—from the tunnel is over.”

“ ‘Mis?” Athos rasped, realization dawning on his face. He sucked in a breath too quickly as he tried to speak, causing a fit of choking and coughing.

“Just breathe slowly, Athos,” Aramis coached, breathing slowly with the swordsman. “Your lungs were bruised, so it might be a little painful to take deep breaths for a while. I want you to just breathe slow and easy.”

Athos’ eyes began to droop but instantly shot open again, his breathing quickening. “I have to stay awake. When I close my eyes. . . I’m back down there. It haunts my sleep, Aramis. I can’t. . . I can’t go to sleep.”

“Athos, you need your rest;” Aramis insisted, “sleep will help your body heal.”

“No, sleep brings torment,” Athos argued, shaking his head. “When I sleep, I’m under the rocks. I feel their weight on my chest, and I can’t breathe. I’m trapped all over again.”

“Athos, I understand how you feel, brother,” Porthos said, his hand sliding off of Athos’ shoulder to rest in his lap. “I had the same haunting dreams that bedeviled me after Torfou, remember that?”

“How could I forget?” Athos said, his voice raspy. “You used to wake up throwing punches,” he exhaled slowly, remembering. “You would struggle when we tried to restrain you. . . and you kept crying out about the number of bodies.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Aramis chimed in. “He would always count to four, but then stop as if he were searching in his dreams for the fifth man.”

“You were terrified,” Athos whispered softly. “I’ll never forget that look in your eyes—they were wild with fear.”

“He’d start breathing fast, and then he’d panic as he was forced to relive that moment again and again. . .” Aramis’ voice trailed. 

“Just like he’s is reliving our experience down in the sewers,” Porthos interjected, staring at his hands. “I was down there with you, Athos, and I heard you struggling to breathe hour after hour. If I could’ve pulled those rocks off your chest, I would ‘ave. I wish I could take your nightmares away,” he paused, remembering he said something similar to Aramis. 

“You said the same thing to me when I had those terrible nightmares after Savoy.”

“Yeah, that’s just what I was thinkin’,” Porthos admitted in a soft whisper. “I remember how you’d wake up in a cold sweat, screamin’ about the bodies covered in snow. You kept seein’ their eyes. . .”

“Merde, those damned eyes,” Aramis whispered, shuddering at the memory. “The bodies were stiff from death and cold, but their eyes were open, unseeing. . . and yet, seeing. They were seeing _me_! It’s as though they were staring at me, questioning why I was still alive and they were. . .” the medic’s voice cracked. He drew in a ragged breath, swallowing back a sob.

“Heh, just like I told ya then,” Porthos soothed, looking Aramis square in the eye. “It’s not your place to question why you survived, and they didn’t; you must go on living in honor of them. They wouldn’t want you givin’ up, but they’d want you to fight. Just like I told ya to fight _your_ nightmares, I’m tellin’ Athos to fight his.”

“My nightmares don’t compare to yours,” Athos sighed.

“What are you talking about?” Aramis asked, puzzled at Athos’ statement.

“You were surrounded by twenty of our brothers, lying dead, frozen in the snow,” Athos said to Aramis. “And you,” he turned his head toward Porthos, “you were surrounded by dead bandits in a thunderstorm and I was just. . .”

“. . . and you were just buried underneath hundreds of pounds of stone and rock!” Aramis added, incredulous. “Your life was being forced from you by the weight, and you would have died down there if we had reached you any later.”

“When I was down there, I thought of my father,” Athos admitted softly, his eyes closing so he wouldn’t have to look at his brothers.

“What would make you think of your father?” Porthos asked, confused.

“When I was a boy I had followed my father into our family crypt, but he didn’t know I was there,” Athos said, drawing in a shaking breath. “After he left, I was locked in down there, and I couldn’t get out. I screamed and pounded on the door—I was terrified. My father heard the noise and came back,” he paused, inhaling through his nose, “he took one look at me and laughed. Father said it was unbecoming of a nobleman’s son to act so. . . cowardly.”

“Mon Dieu!” Aramis whispered.

“Bloody hell,” Porthos growled, angrily.

Athos paid no attention to their curses. He scrunched up his eyes, riding through the pain throbbing in his chest and making it hard to breathe.

“Athos, maybe you should just get some rest,” Aramis suggested, though he was ignored.

“No, I haven’t told anyone this since. . .” Athos paused, catching his breath. “My father laughed and said he was going to teach me. . . a lesson. No son of his would grow up to be a coward, and he would make a man out of me yet. He pushed me back into the crypt and locked the door,” he said, trembling at the memory. “I pounded on the door, screaming for him to let me out, but he walked away. Father left me there. . .” his voice cracked with emotion.

“Athos?”

The swordsman held up his hand, taking a moment to collect himself. “My father left me in there until morning. I stayed awake all night, staring into the pitch-black darkness, afraid the dead were coming after me. I sat with my back against the door, so no one could get at me from behind. I. . . I couldn’t see, but I strained my ears, listening for sounds of movement.”

“Oh Athos, I’m so sorry. . .”

“When he let me out, Father said he would see _no_ tears nor hear one complaint,” Athos said, letting a soft sigh escape. “If he heard so much as a whimper from me, I would spend another night in the crypt. I learned to keep my feelings to myself, and I never complained. . . to my father.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed quietly. “If I had known that down there, maybe I could’ve talked to you more, or. . . _something_.”

“I felt your hand, gripping my boot,” Athos whispered, his breath hitching. “When the terror threatened to overwhelm me, I’d feel your hand, and it would remind me that I wasn’t alone. I knew if I died down there. . . at least I had you with me, and. . . I wouldn’t die alone.” 

“My God,” a voice uttered from the doorway of the bedchamber. The group looked up to see the shocked faces of the captain and d’Artagnan, having heard the last part of the conversation.

“Captain,” Aramis began, but was stopped by an uplifted hand.

“Please, don’t say anything,” Captain Tréville said, clearing his throat. “I just want you to listen to me. I know you all have been through experiences in life that would have made a lesser man cower and hide. But you men stood up to your demons, and you’ve each shown your mettle—it’s why I wanted you with me as Musketeers. I want men like you standing with me, and serving alongside me, in the trenches and on the battlefields. . . and even on the streets of Paris.”

“Captain . . .”

“I’m not finished yet,” the captain said, firmly. “With that said, we’ve all had to deal with ghosts haunting us from our past when we’d just as soon forget about the past and move on. However, if we don’t deal with the demons of our past, they will forever control our present _and_ our future. The only way you can put those nightmares to rest—for good—is to talk about it with someone who has experienced similar circumstances and can relate.”

The captain nodded and gave a small smile, looking proudly over his men. “We’ve all been through our own private hell these last few days, but I witnessed the seeds of healing taking root here tonight. You boys bury the skeletons—right here, right now—so they never come back to haunt you again. It’s the only way your nightmares will ever truly stop.”

Athos blinked back the moisture in his eyes, letting them close against the tears threatening to spill. He ghosted a smile as he felt the hands of his brothers, reassuring him of their presence with a gentle squeeze. He let sleep take him, still feeling the hands of his brothers offering assurance that it was safe to fall asleep. For the first time since the tunnel collapse, he felt safe. He slept soundly, knowing his brothers would never leave him and he was not alone. 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The next chapter will have a TIME JUMP to keep the story moving along. The boys will be back at the garrison to heal and. . . well, you'll just have to wait and see.**
> 
> PTSD is a psychological disorder that may develop after a traumatic experience; one such symptom that is common is flashbacks. When the memory of a trauma is involuntarily recalled, the flashbacks can be quite vivid, overwhelmingly emotional, and are experienced as if they were really happening right then and there.
> 
> Flashbacks also occur in the form of post-traumatic nightmares. These nightmares are generally defined as so frightening they awaken the dreamer; they are also marked by intense negative emotion, such as fear, anger, or sadness. These nightmares cause significant distress, both during the dream and after awakening.
> 
> I referenced two of my older stories in this chapter, _Double Trouble,_ in which the boys find themselves in serious trouble in the Forest of Torfou; and when Porthos had recurring nightmares, stemming from his frightening experience in Torfou, in my story _Nightmares and Champagne._


	7. Stirring Hell's Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "DuBois has no idea of the hellfire he’s stirred up,” Porthos growled in agreement. “He’s about to reap what he has sown—Aramis and d’Artagnan will be his worst nightmare."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned to combine this chapter with the beginning of the hunt for DuBois, but the boys were rather irritable and needed to let off some steam - rant, in other words, especially Porthos! Besides, I found the ending of this chapter to be the perfect break between scenes (fades to black screen - for my visually inclined readers).  
> I hope you enjoy the grumbling session - the calm before the storm. Thank you to Mountain Cat for proofreading!

**TEN DAYS LATER, MUSKETEER GARRISON, INFIRMARY:**

Warm sunshine streamed through the window, making the dust particles dance and sparkle like thousands of floating gems in the large room. The two patients stirred, smiling as they sensed the familiar ambiance of home. 

Stale air and the well-known odors of horses, dust, and sweat wafted in through the open door of the infirmary. A light breeze carried with it the familiar shouts of command followed by the din of clanging steel; boisterous laughter was hushed by the disgruntled voice of the regimental captain.

“Oi, it’s good to be home,” Porthos said, stretching as he took in a deep breath of the dusty air. “I never thought the cap’n yellin’ would be a bloody fine sound to wake up to, but I missed this.”

“Porthos, what are you going on about?” d’Artagnan asked, grinning. “If you were out there training with the rest of the men, you would have a very different opinion, mon ami,” he said, his eyes glinting with merriment.

“Rubbish, after spendin’ nearly two weeks at the palace I was more than ready to get out of there,” Porthos admitted with a disgruntled huff. “One more day under His Majesty’s roof and I was fixin’ to walk out on my own if I had to.”

“Really, mon cher?” Aramis snickered, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “Walk home, with that cast on your leg? You would still be making your way here, even as we speak.”

“I’m certain the ride home last night didn’t feel good on my leg, but it was worse on Athos. That ride was rough on ‘im,” Porthos whispered, motioning his head toward the swordsman. “Maybe he shoulda stayed put at the palace a while longer. . . and I thought _I_ was stubborn.”

“Um, excuse me, but you’re both. . .”

“. . . stubborn,” Aramis and d’Artagnan chimed in unison. 

“It would be hard to decide which of the two of you is more stubborn, but I’d put a livre on Athos,” Aramis added, his cheerful attitude disappearing as he watched Athos scrunch up his face in pain. 

“I. . . heard that,” Athos said, relaxing as the pain subsided. “We’re not the only oness. . . sstubb’rn.” The swordsman tightened his jaws, inhaling through his nose as prickling pain once again coursed through his chest. “But I’m with Porthos, I couldn’t. . . ssstay at the palace one more day,” he said, clutching at his ribs as he coughed. 

“Well, your stubbornness may have set your convalescence back a week or more,” Aramis scolded, as he swabbed the swordsman’s pained face with a cool cloth. “You could have stayed at the palace about a week longer to give those ribs more time to heal—not to mention, your shoulder. Even the captain didn’t want to risk upsetting the progress you’ve made, but you. . .” the medic stopped short, remembering Athos’ insistence on joining Porthos for the wagon ride back to the garrison. 

“I simply disagreed with your decision to leave me behind at the palace,” Athos drawled.

“You could have hurt yourself getting up from that bed like you did, and the rough ride home didn’t help any,” Aramis retorted sharply. “You still have weeks to go before your lungs heal—and what if your ribs had shifted because of a hole in the road? You strong-willed, hardheaded, stubborn. . .”

“I can heal just as well here at the garrison as I could have at the palace, mind you,” Athos interrupted, closing his eyes to avoid Aramis’ disapproving stare. “Though, I would have preferred to be in my own room.”

“Now you’re pushing it,” Aramis remarked, shaking his head at the sheer stubbornness of his brother. “Just be grateful. Remember, the captain agreed to you traveling home with Porthos on the _sole_ condition that you come straight here to the infirmary.”

“It isss good to be home,” Athos said tiredly, visibly flagging.

“Are you feeling better this morning?” d’Artagnan asked, concern apparent in his brown eyes. “Any residual pain from the wagon ride?”

“I’m a little sore, but I’ll live,” Athos replied, nodding to his protégé before letting his eyes slide closed.

“Yes, you’ll live, my stubborn friend,” Aramis whispered in agreement.

The men were interrupted when the captain entered the room and cleared his throat, demanding their attention. His face was grim, his jaw set, as he waited for the men to look his way.

“What is it, Captain?” d’Artagnan asked nervously.

“We have been ordered on a mission from His Majesty,” the captain informed the men, “and we leave immediately.”

“What kind of mission, Cap’n?” Porthos asked, sitting up straighter on his bed.

“The palace received word this morning that Pierre DuBois was spotted in the village of Versailles.” The captain paused, then added, “it has been reported that he is headed east, back toward Paris.”

“What!” the group echoed together in surprise.

“You can’t be serious, Captain,” Athos uttered in disbelief, reviving at the serious news. 

“Why would he come back here?” Porthos growled, his fists clenching in his lap. “He’s a bloody fool—a damned cocky one, at that.” 

“I don’t know why DuBois would return to Paris when he could have left the country and disappeared,” Captain Tréville said, appearing nonplussed. After a brief moment of pondering, the captain’s eyes narrowed as his face turned dark, his demeanor hardening. 

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Aramis asked.

“Perhaps, DuBois isn’t finished with us yet,” the captain surmised. “He may be returning to tie up loose ends, so we need to stop him before he hurts anyone else. As of this morning, His Majesty has ordered a full-scale search for DuBois; we are to hunt this fugitive down and bring him back to the palace where he will face punishment.”

“A quick and painless death would be too good for that bastard, considering what he did!” d’Artagnan growled, standing abruptly. 

“DuBois is to be hanged,” the captain paused, “by the king’s decree.”

“I could think of a punishment more fitting to the crime,” Aramis grumbled. 

“Bloody hell, if I could get my hands on that damned DuBois, he wouldn’t leave this world with just a simple hangin’.” 

“You will have to sit this one out, Porthos,” Captain Tréville stated regretfully. “Aramis, d’Artagnan, we must leave at once,” the captain said, shutting down the conversation. 

“We’ll see you when we get back,” Aramis and d’Artagnan said, each gently squeezing the shoulders of their brothers before turning to leave the room.

Captain Tréville waited for the Gascon and medic to file outside before addressing the two injured men, both seething with anger. “I know you’re both upset about being left behind, but neither of you are in any shape to go riding across the countryside.”

“We know ‘at, Cap’n,” Porthos admitted, “but it doesn’t change how we feel. If DuBois is coming back, I’d love to have a go at ‘im!” he snarled. 

“No, the king wants DuBois brought back to him alive,” the captain reminded them. “This is no time to be seeking revenge, Porthos; we are better than that. Do not forget, we are professional soldiers representing His Majesty.”

“I have a score to settle with ‘at devil!” Porthos growled, ignoring the captain’s sage words.

“If I hear that either one of you has gotten up from your bed to follow us,” the captain threatened, “or if I find out that you have not listened to the physician in _any_ manner, I will have you disciplined at my own discretion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Porthos replied tersely, restraining himself as rage bubbled inside him.

“Athos?”

Athos pursed his lips, his jaw muscles rippling beneath his cheeks. He stared hard at the ceiling, saying nothing, but finally relented with a sigh. “Understood, Captain,” he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. He closed his eyes, not bothering to watch as Captain Tréville turned to leave the room, pausing at the door. 

“Do I have your word, Athos, that you will stay in bed?” the captain asked, waiting for a reply.

“You have my word, Captain,” Athos answered dryly, without opening his eyes.

Tréville stood and watched as his men hung their heads, their disappointment palpable. With a rueful shake of his head, the captain turned on his heel and left. 

“This is rubbish!”

“The captain’s right,” Athos said in defeat, his features crestfallen. “We have to sit this one out, Porthos. It isn’t our fight.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Porthos argued. He picked up his wooden cup and threw it across the room, spraying water everywhere. The clatter captured the attention of the physician, who had just arrived to check on the patients.

“What is going on in here?” the physician demanded.

The Musketeers ignored the doctor, too deeply absorbed in their own private thoughts to be bothered. Athos creased his brow as he listened to the sounds of the men gathering in the courtyard. He heard the sounds of tack jingling and clanking, intermingled with nervous murmurs, as the men mounted their horses. 

Clouds of dust wafted into the infirmary from the horses stomping, impatient to be on their way. At last, the troop departed the garrison in an urgent search for the man who attempted to kill two of their own. The Musketeers set out to find the one responsible and bring him to justice; they were determined to not return to Paris empty-handed.

“Stubborn Musketeers,” the physician muttered under his breath. He walked past the surly patients to sit at his desk, where he began perusing the day’s medical reports. 

Porthos glared at the wall in front of him, his brow creased in anger. “This ain’t right, dammit! We should be goin’ with them,” he grumbled with irritation, ignoring the doctor’s presence. “I wasn’t kiddin’ ‘bout wantin’ to get my hands on that devil.” 

“I know, Porthos, I feel the same, but we wouldn’t be of any help,” Athos whispered quietly. “We’d only slow them down.”

“That’s beside the point,” Porthos snapped. “It’s because of _him_ that we almost lost you in ‘at tunnel; and it’s because of him that I’m in this damned cast!”

Athos closed his eyes, momentarily tuning out the complaining Musketeer. He knew Porthos’ anger was justified, and any hatred the streetfighter felt toward DuBois was certainly warranted. The lieutenant agreed with his brother’s desire to avenge what had happened to them in the tunnels, but they were confined to the infirmary—by their injuries and the captain’s orders—and there was absolutely nothing they could do to change that fact. 

After a long silence, the swordsman opened his eyes and turned to meet his brother’s angry stare. Athos sighed at seeing the frustration and fury flickering in the stormy brown eyes. “They’ll find him, Porthos, but they’ll have to find him without us.”

“We should be out there, watchin’ their backs,” Porthos said with a throaty growl. “Instead, we’re stuck here on these damned beds like invalids.” 

“Which is what we are at the moment,” Athos pointed out. “There isn’t anything we can do, but I know Aramis and d’Artagnan harbor a thirst for vengeance, and will carry it out on our behalf. I have full confidence that our brothers will bring DuBois to justice,” Athos paused, contemplating his next words. 

“I believe DuBois has underestimated us,” Athos continued finally, his voice low and threatening. “Our brothers will hunt that devil down, to the ends of the Earth. If DuBois is searching for a fight, there is one coming for him.” 

“DuBois has no idea of the hellfire he’s stirred up,” Porthos growled in agreement. “He’s about to reap what he has sown—Aramis and d’Artagnan will be his worst nightmare. I won’t feel sorry for whatever happens to ‘at bastard. Not one damned bit.”


	8. Lured Into the Devil's Lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captain led the group as they threaded through the maze of trees. Goosebumps formed on their skin from a sudden chill, as though they were walking straight into the devil’s lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating, but it's been crazy busy. I thank you all for your patience, and for sticking with me on this story. I wish it was Halloween season (I know that sounds crazy), but this chapter would have been perfect as a creepy Halloween story - it wasn't planned, but I love a creepy thriller! Thank you, Mountain Cat, for proofing and catching my stupid (yes, stupid) mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> **For Bubbles - Heaven's newest Angel... Fly Free!**

**ON THE ROAD TO VERSAILLES:**

Captain Tréville led the troop of Musketeers racing west in search of the escaped convict, who had been ordered to be hanged by Louis XIII, King of France. 

Clouds of dust billowed in their wake; the pounding hooves slowing only as they traversed the winding, narrow roads of the forest. The bright sunlight streamed through the trees, casting slivers of sunshine across the road. 

“Stay alert and keep your eyes open,” said the captain, his eyes sweeping the forest as he searched around every tree. The sudden movement of a rabbit captured the captain’s eye, making his breath hitch. “Dammit,” he cursed. _Don’t be so paranoid, Tréville,_ he thought. 

“I’m glad Porthos isn’t with us,” Aramis whispered to d’Artagnan, “I think this place would make him nervous. Growing up in the Court made him tough, but out here in the forest. . .” his voice trailed. 

“Torfou didn’t help matters any,” d’Artagnan reminded him, glancing around nervously. “This forest is the perfect hiding place for a fugitive; DuBois could be anywhere, ambushing us before we even knew what hit us.”

“The captain has good instincts, and I’d follow him anywhere,” Aramis said, removing his hat to wipe his brow, “but I have an odd feeling about this one. There’s just _something_ about him that worries me.”

“I’ve had the same thoughts,” d’Artagnan grunted in response. “We’ve been on missions all over France chasing after murderers, thieves, and hooligans, so why does DuBois have us all on edge?”

“He’s wily and clever,” Aramis replied, his jaw hardening. “He’s proven he is ruthless, and he doesn’t care who he hurts; there is nothing in him but hate. He has nothing to lose, and _that_ is what makes him so dangerous.”

Suddenly, the captain reined in his horse, warning those behind him with a raised hand. “Stop!” he hissed, straining his ears to listen.

“What is it, Captain,” Aramis asked anxiously, his eyes darting around for signs of danger. “Did you see something?”

“No, I heard something,” the captain replied, staring intently into the forest. “In there, it sounded like twigs snapping.”

“Captain, this forest is teeming with wild animals,” d’Artagnan interjected respectfully. “The royal family has hunted in these woods for generations, and for good reason.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, d’Artagnan,” the captain acknowledged with a nod. Tréville continued searching, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into the distance. “I _know_ I heard something,” he whispered to himself. “Let’s keep moving.”

The forest seemed to come to life as the trees swayed and shook from a sudden gust of wind. Shifting branches creaked and moaned, joining with the eerie whistles of the tree tops and the rustling of the trembling leaves.

The commotion in the forest gave d’Artagnan an uneasy feeling, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He sat up straighter in the saddle, “I’m getting a strange feeling. . .”

“. . . that we’re being watched,” Aramis said, finishing the Gascon’s sentence. “Perhaps the captain _did_ hear something back there, after all.”

“Do you think DuBois is watching us from up there?” D’Artagnan nodded to the low ridge that ran parallel to the road, shivering as his blood turned to ice. 

“He’s been one step ahead of us since the beginning,” Aramis replied, his eyes searching the hillside. “DuBois drew Athos and Porthos into those tunnels on purpose, knowing they’d follow him down there.”

“Merde, he’s been playing us for fools this whole time!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, his eyes burning with anger. “We’re pawns in a sick game.”

“I don’t like this,” Aramis grumbled, swiveling in his saddle as he looked around. “We’re too vulnerable on horseback, and too loud. Captain, we need to get down off our horses and walk; it would be safer.”

“Hold on, what if that’s _not_ DuBois out there, but a figment of our over-active imagination?” d’artagnan challenged with a voice of reason. “The advantage of speed is lost if we get rid of the horses.”

“True,” Aramis agreed, “but we gain the advantage of stealth and maneuverability. Any advantage we have out here is paramount, considering _who_ we are dealing with.”

“And that’s assuming it’s _him_ ,” d’Artagnan added, arching his eyebrows pensively.

“That noise I heard back there was not my imagination,” Captain Tréville argued. “No, it’s him; I’m sure of it. However, you do realize that we cannot cover as much ground on foot,” he reminded Aramis.

“Yes, but if DuBois is nearby, we just need to keep up and then catch him. Look, there’s one of him but nine of us,” Aramis stated, matter-of-factly. “He’s been watching us since we rode into the forest, and he’s probably watching us as we speak.”

“Agreed, we’re better off on foot, but what do we do with the horses?” the captain asked, scanning the area for a suitable place to leave their mounts.

“Let’s keep riding until we come across a lodge or cabin; there has to be some form of civilization out here,” Aramis replied. 

“What about DuBois?” the Gascon asked, his eyes darting between Aramis and the captain.

“I’m sure he’ll stay with us,” Aramis replied without skipping a beat. “He’s in this for the thrill of the chase; he’s not going to let us go that easily.”

“Wait a minute, I thought we were the ones chasing _him_!” d’artagnan exclaimed, his brow creased in confusion.

“We _are_ chasing him, but he’s also chasing us. This is a game of cat-and-mouse unlike any other I’ve witnessed in all my years of soldiering,” the captain stated, pursing his lips in frustration. “Neither side has the advantage because the advantage is constantly shifting.” 

“DuBois is toying with us,” d’Artagnan clarified, more statement than question.

“Indeed, he is toying with us,” Captain Tréville agreed, kicking his horse into motion. “This situation was contrived by him from the beginning. He attacks, and we pursue. . . and he stays one step ahead of us, gloating,” the captain growled.

“But why us?” d’Artagnan asked angrily. “Why did he choose the Musketeers for his game?”

“I can’t answer that, d’Artagnan,” the captain replied, perplexed. “I had never heard of Pierre DuBois before he escaped from prison.”

“A disgruntled soldier, perhaps?” Aramis questioned, his eyebrows disappearing under his soft-grey hat.

“I don’t know, but quite possibly,” the captain nodded, pondering the idea.

“Which is why we must be every bit as shrewd as _him_ ,” Aramis insisted. “We’ll be slower, but we can maneuver better through the forest and be as sneaky as he is.” 

“If DuBois wants to act as a burglar, we must become like a burglar,” d’Artagnan surmised smartly.

“As ridiculous as that sounds, the answer is yes,” Aramis huffed with disgust.

The group rode on a while longer in silence, all the while staying alert and watching their surroundings. The feeling that they were being watched hung over them like a dark cloud, adding to their anxiety.

“Captain, over there!” One of the older Musketeers exclaimed, breaking the silence and pointing to a small cabin with puffs of white smoke billowing from the chimney. “A most fortuitous find,” the captain said, with a breath of relief. “Let’s go see if anyone is home.”

****

**~§~**

After leaving their horses with the cabin owners, and most of their coin as payment, the Musketeers left the clearing and hiked back to the road where they started.

“If it’s a game DuBois is playing, he’ll find I am a most capable opponent—and I don’t like to lose,” Captain Tréville said in a low, menacing voice. “He will rue the day he ever challenged the Musketeers.” 

“Captain, we need to get to higher ground, up there,” Aramis said, pointing to the crest of the hill. “As long as that devil is above us, he’ll always have the advantage.”

“That is exactly where we are going, Aramis,” the captain stated, as he led the way up the hill. “Remember, that man is ruthless and he’s lurking out there, so be careful.”

“But he’s not stupid; he anticipates every action we take, Captain,” d’Artagnan retorted with an angry huff. “If we move up higher, he will move up higher still.” 

“This hill is not that high, but it appears. . . he has lured us. . . to a most formidable area of the forest,” Captain Tréville replied, short of breath. 

“Well, this certainly proves Athos and Porthos could _not_ have managed our little adventure in the forest, not in their condition,” Aramis muttered, swiping at a low-lying branch in his face.

“There was never any thought of them coming along,” the captain asserted firmly, ending the conversation.

The men continued to hike up the steep hill, snaking between the trees as they climbed higher. The captain blew out a weary breath, his chest heaving from exertion. He was tiring quickly, but wasn’t about to rest. 

“Captain, do you need to take a break?” Aramis asked, watching his leader breathing heavily from the climb.

“No, we must. . . keep moving,” the captain replied between breaths. “We cannot afford to slow, or take a break. . . we must get to. . . the high ground.” 

The Musketeers climbed higher, scaling over rocks and slippery mud until they reached the crest of the hill. “Hold. . . hold on. . . a moment,” Captain Tréville panted, finally stopping to catch his breath. 

“Where. . . where in the hell is he, dammit?” Aramis growled, panting as he looked around. The marksman’s eyes skillfully scanned the area for possible vantage points, searching for the wily DuBois. 

Suddenly, a covey of quail took flight, scattering in every direction as though startled by something, or _someone._ Sneering laughter made the captain’s blood boil; he clenched his teeth, his face reddening with anger. The fugitive shouted insults and jeers, daring the Musketeers to follow. 

“Damn you, DuBois!” the captain hissed between his clenched teeth. “Stop running, you coward!”

The men ran through the forest, jumping over rocks and dodging trees, toward the area where they had spotted the birds. The pounding of their feet reverberated on the forest floor; pine needles were squashed into the earth, and buried in the mud. 

Clouds had gathered, obscuring the earlier sunlight and making the day dark and ominous. The wind picked up, creating a sinister resistance to their climb upward, as though DuBois had the very elements at his command. 

Treville stopped, staring as he focused on a figure lurking in the shadows. “Follow me,” he ordered, “and keep your eyes open!” 

The captain led the group as they threaded through the maze of trees. Goosebumps formed on their skin from a sudden chill, as though they were walking straight into the devil’s lair.

Suddenly, the _c-r-rack!_ of a musket firing echoed through the forest; the lead ball whistled, lodging itself in the tree above the captain’s head. The Musketeers scrambled for cover behind the trees, waiting for the captain’s orders. 

“He’s over there, just beyond those rocks.” Captain Tréville pointed past a large formation of boulders, and without further word, he sprinted off at full speed. Arriving safely at the rocks, he turned and nodded for the men to follow; he watched with relief as, one by one, they joined him.

“Captain, that was a fool. . .” Aramis began to scold, but thought better of it. “Sir, he isn’t too far in front of us,” he panted, “we might be able to flank him.” The marksman clutched his rifle tightly as he leaned against the rocks catching his breath.

“Not yet, Aramis,” the captain said, shaking his head. “I don’t want us splitting up until I know his _exact_ location. For now, I want us to stay together.”

“I know the shot came from that ridge, just up the hill,” Aramis added, carefully peeking around the rock’s edge. “The grassy ledge is a perfect vantage point for a sniper—that’s where I would be. He could have killed you, Captain,” the marksman said grimly, swallowing hard. “He shot over your head _on purpose_!”

“Yes, I know,” Tréville replied neutrally. “He’s letting us know he’s in control, or so he thinks. We cannot allow him to have the upper hand; we must keep pressing forward, until he’s out of hiding places. Stay alert, and keep your heads down,” he ordered, before sprinting off again. 

“Dammit, Captain!” Aramis cursed under his breath. He peeked around the rock, aiming his rifle at the ledge as the captain ran from one tree to another. Arriving at a thick tree, Tréville turned around and gave a signal to follow.

“I’ll go next,” d’Artagnan offered, preparing to run.

“Go ahead, I’ll cover you,” Aramis nodded, watching as the Gascon followed in the captain’s footsteps. The medic allowed each of the remaining Musketeers to run for cover before he left the safety of the rock formation. 

The group zigzagged to the forest’s edge which opened to a large clearing with no place to hide. As if the Almighty Himself was working against them, the gusting wind halted their momentum. Stinging droplets of rain pelted the men’s faces; lightning streaked across the darkening sky, as rolls of thunder rumbled under the clouds, bulging with rain.

“Great, just what we needed,” Aramis grumbled, looking up at the sky. “A little help from You would be appreciated,” he paused, “we’re the good guys, remember?” 

“I don’t believe this!” d’Artagnan exclaimed angrily, moving further back inside the trees. “Can _anything_ go right for us out here?”

“We can’t go out there,” the captain said, falling back against the tree trunk with disappointment. “We would be walking targets with no cover to hide behind.”

“True, he was probably counting on us going out there so he could pick us off, one by one,” Aramis agreed. 

“We could wait here and move out under the cover of darkness,” Captain Tréville suggested, inviting input.

“I think it would be safer for us to wait out the storm back at that formation of rocks,” Aramis chimed in.

“I agree, at least DuBois can’t sneak up behind us with the rocks at our back,” d’Artagnan concurred. 

“Alright, but we must never let our guard down,” the captain warned. “I don’t like going backward, but I feel we have no other choice. We’ll stay at the rocks until we can figure out our next move.” 

Rain was pouring down in sheets as the Musketeers returned, seeking shelter among the giant rocks. The men were already soaked to the bone; water dripped from the brims of their hats and ran down in rivulets on their leather doublets. 

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, resounding like cannon fire through the forest. A cacophony of noises came from every direction; the sound of falling rain and small animals scattering about added to the growing unease of the men.

“Be wary and watch each other’s back!” the captain shouted over the pounding rain. “Keep an eye out for DuBois!” 

The Musketeers spread out, keeping the rocks at their back as they waited for the storm to pass. Fear rolled like waves over the men as nightfall arrived; they shivered from the bone-chilling cold, as well as a morbid paranoia brought on by the darkness. The storm continued to spark terror in the minds of the search party, and as each hour passed, the men grew more tense and jittery.

“Just keep calm, men,” the captain reassured them, his tone unflustered. “You are Musketeers; you have trained for situations such as this.”

The captain’s soothing words did little to reassure the newer, younger men who had never seen combat. The most dangerous missions, for at least two of the men, had been hunting expeditions with His Majesty. 

As a loud clap of thunder cracked across the night sky, DuBois suddenly appeared at the rock’s edge without notice. Using the thunder to drown out his moves, and the darkness as cover, he suddenly and viciously sliced his stiletto across the throat of a young Musketeer at the edge of the rocks. Just as quickly, the fugitive disappeared into the void before anyone knew what had happened. 

A flash of lightning lit up the darkness, revealing the dying man; he sputtered and gurgled as his lifeblood drained out, staining the muddy ground red. The nearby Musketeers screamed in horror at the grisly sight, alerting the captain to the brutal and savage murder. 

“My God!” Captain Tréville exclaimed in shock. “How in the _hell_ did he sneak up and attack without us hearing a damn thing?” 

“We’re sitting targets out here!” a young Musketeer yelled, his wild eyes conveying the panic gripping his mind.

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis spat, enraged. “What kind of man is he, that one person can inflict such terror? We need to catch that animal!” 

The captain turned, hearing the sound of footsteps running away, back toward the clearing. “Let’s move, while he’s out in the open,” he ordered, running off after the fugitive.

“You heard the captain,” d’Artagnan yelled, “let’s move!”

“Wait, I’ll follow the captain,” Aramis shouted to d’Artagnan, “you take up the rear and protect the men!” The marksman sprinted off after the captain, both chasing a murderer every bit as ruthless and barbaric as the devil himself.

Running toward the forest edge, Aramis spotted movement in the trees off to his left. Looking closer, he saw a dark, ominous figure lurking, almost daring him to follow. Suddenly, the figure jumped out from behind the trees and ran into the clearing. 

The medic whistled, directing the captain’s attention to where DuBois was running. Aramis ran after the elusive fugitive, jumping over fallen branches, rocks, and a shallow gully into the open glade; the medic stayed on his heels, keeping up with the psychopathic man attempting to flee.

Lightning illuminated the running figure, but temporarily blinded the medic. Suddenly, the marksman stepped in an unseen hole and went sprawling to the ground with a cry of pain. “Ah, dammit!” 

The fugitive momentarily forgotten, the group of Musketeers ran to the medic’s aid, worried for their fallen brother who was writhing in pain on the soggy ground. D’Artagnan and the captain arrived as the men rolled Aramis over and sat him upright, checking for injuries.

“Aramis, where are you hurt, son?” Captain Tréville questioned.

“Ahhh. . . it’s my ankle. . . dammit!” 

“Is it broken?” the captain asked, kneeling down as he carefully touched around the ankle. “It’s rather hard to determine if your ankle is broken through this thick boot of yours,” he said with a forced smile. 

“Damn!” Aramis screamed out as he slowly tried to rotate his ankle, clenching his teeth against the agony it caused. He hissed in pain as he slid his hand down inside his boot, guiding his fingers along the ankle, checking for broken bones. “No, I don’t think anything is broken,” he said miserably, “but I’m sure it’s sprained.”

“Can you walk on it?” Captain Tréville asked in frustration, scrubbing a wet hand down his face. 

“I have no choice, Captain,” Aramis answered sternly, his expression resolute. “No way in hell am I staying behind, and I will not jeopardize this mission over a sprained ankle. I’ll just have to make do, somehow.”

“I don’t like this, Aramis,” Captain Tréville stated, releasing a dispirited breath. “But we cannot let DuBois go, and I am not leaving you here alone.”

“Maybe I can find a decent branch that can act as a cane,” d’Artagnan suggested, leaping to his feet to find the desired piece. After wandering around, using the lightning flashes as light, the Gascon returned with the perfect walking stick. “Here, this will help support your weight, but I want you to lean on me—I won’t let you fall.” 

“Alright, get him up on his feet, and let’s go,” the captain ordered, scanning the darkened glade with concern.

“Let’s get you on your feet, mon cher,” d’Artagnan said, lifting the medic until he was standing on his one good foot. Aramis hopped in place, trying to gain his balance as the Gascon steadied his brother with a strong arm around his waist.

Aramis sucked in a pained breath, the air hissing through his clenched teeth. “Merde, it hurts like the devil,” he groaned, blinking back the spots dancing in his vision. He grasped the branch d’Artagnan had slipped into his hand, before leaning into the brother at his side. As the duo began to move, the medic bit his lip and willed himself forward, swallowing a moan of pain. His foot throbbed; the agony burned, coursing up his leg like a million biting ants.

The group slowly trudged through the dark, open clearing as the rain continued to fall softly. The squishing of boots through the soggy grass made an eerie accompaniment to the men’s anxious breathing and pounding hearts.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” Aramis whispered the beloved Psalm to himself.

“Are you alright, Aramis?” the captain inquired with concern.

“I’m managing. . .”

“Do you see this?” D’Artagnan gulped as he looked down at the fog swirling at his feet. “What _is_ this place?” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think we were trapped in a macabre nightmare,” Aramis huffed nervously.

“This is unreal!” The Gascon tensed as they moved through the ghostly fog rising up from the wet ground and hanging thick in the air. “Has he conjured the entities of the underworld?” 

“If it wasn’t so important to capture DuBois,” Aramis began, shivering from a sudden chill, “I would turn and run far away from this place.” The medic let out a sardonic snort, “but I can’t run, even if I wanted to.”

“My God!” Tréville blurted out, startling the men. “I just saw DuBois go in there!” The captain pointed to a structure ahead, sporadically illuminated by the flashes of lightning. 

The group sped up, stopping in front of a dilapidated chateau, deteriorating after years of abandonment. The sagging walls were mere remnants of days long past, when it perhaps had been the home of some affluent nobleman. The stairs leading to the porch were crumbling, with broken chunks of debris scattered across the steps. The wood around the entryway and the ornate hardwood door was rotten and warped from years of weather. 

The captain shivered as he pushed open the door, cringing at the loud creak from the rusty, worn hinges. The dirty floor showed no sign of having been walked on in years, except for the wet footprints tracking through the thick layers of dust leading down the hall, and disappearing around the corner.

Captain Tréville followed the footprints through the hallway and into the parlor. Lightning lit up the room where the owners had once entertained guests, but the furniture was now tattered and covered in dust. A fireplace still contained the burned ashes of a bygone fire; cobwebs hung in dusty strands from every corner. 

The scattered lightning guided the men as they passed by shelves of books now covered in dust from years of neglect. Finally, the illuminated footprints led them to a once magnificent staircase, leading to the second floor. The house went black, forcing the men to wait for the next flash of light. 

“Aramis, you’re not going to be able to go up these stairs,” the captain whispered in the inky darkness. “Why don’t you go back and have a seat in the parlor; Lémieux and Fortier, you stay with him.”

“Captain, I can still. . .” 

“You heard me!” the captain snapped. “This place is too dangerous, and we know what is waiting up those stairs. . .” his voice trailed as the men helped Aramis back to the parlor.

Outside, a gust of wind blew open the front door with a _BANG!_ The Musketeers shrieked, jumping at the noise. A brief flash of light lit up the horror-stricken faces, their eyes wide with fright.

The _creak_ of the floor upstairs made everyone freeze in place, stopping mid-breath to listen. A wild series of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the room; the men looked up at the dark silhouette standing at the top of the stairs, peering down on them with a wicked smile.

“Come and get me,” DuBois taunted with a heinous laugh.

To their dread, the house went dark, forcing the captain and d’Artagnan, and the following men, to use the worn banister to guide them to the top. Thunder clapped as lightning lit up the sky, revealing the sinister, twisted face of DuBois as he stood over them. He raised his pistol to fire.

Once again, the darkness enveloped the men as the light disappeared. The Musketeers gasped at the distinct release of the hammer and pull of the trigger; the spray of sparks ignited the gunpowder just before the pistol fired, the flash revealing DuBois’ odious grin.

D’Artagnan screamed as the ball impacted his body with such force, that it jerked him sideways; the Gascon was helpless as he felt his body teeter and then topple backward. With no way to stop himself, he tumbled down the stairs until he hit the hard floor. 

“D’Artagnan!” Captain Tréville shouted in horror. Lightning flashed, illuminating the unmoving Gascon, a dark stain spreading beneath him. “Oh God, no!”

With the help of Fortier and Lémieux, Aramis hobbled in from the parlor in time to see the lightning illuminate his brother lying face down on the floor. “Madre de Dios!” the medic exploded in anger.

“DuBois, I swear to the heavens above, I will _kill_ you when I find you,” Aramis shouted with untamed rage. “Do you hear me, you bastard? I swear to God above, I will kill you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "cat-and-mouse" only dates back to around 1675, but it was perfect for this story, so I made a discretionary call and used it. The term refers to when the "cat" is unable to secure a definitive victory over the "mouse," who despite not being able to defeat the cat, is able to avoid capture (now, isn't that DuBois and the Musketeers?).
> 
> Bible scripture: Psalm 23:4 KJV


	9. Spirit of the Marquis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Something terrible happened here, and I feel we're going to regret ever following DuBois into the devil's lair."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and kind reviews! Thank you to Mountain Cat for finding my mistakes - You're an Angel!

Maniacal laughter echoed in the darkness.

The Musketeers felt an icy chill move up their spine, tingling like a thousand crawling spiders; goosebumps pimpled their flesh, and they shivered as their hair stood on end.

Peals of thunder rumbled, joining with the laughter echoing off the walls and ringing in their ears. Wild streaks of lightning illuminated the macabre scene, giving the fugitive delight in the terror he saw in their faces. 

DuBois had hit his mark. 

He laughed at the medic’s threat of revenge; in fact, he welcomed it. The thrill of wreaking such havoc was empowering, invigorating. “I welcome the challenge,” the villain snarled in a low, throaty voice before disappearing into the void.

Captain Tréville listened, his ears following the heavy footsteps retreating down the hall. At the next flash of light, the captain bounded up the stairs in pursuit, but the returning darkness stopped him in his tracks. The sudden slamming of a door alerted him to DuBois’ hideout.

The captain inched down the hall with outstretched arms sweeping through the air, searching for obstacles as he maneuvered his way through the unyielding blackness. He thought of Athos and Porthos as they lay hopelessly trapped underneath the crushing debris in similar darkness, and his heart ached.

“I’m sorry you suffered at the hands of that savage beast,” the captain whispered with regret. He continued shuffling slowly down the hall until suddenly he heard the crash of shattering glass.

The captain quickened his pace to the room, following the noise and the crunching of broken glass underfoot. Tréville fumbled blindly for the knob, opening the door to a rush of wind. Lightning flashed, catching DuBois at the window, hunched over as he prepared to escape. 

The man turned to glare at the captain, his face highlighted by the burst of light; his bone-chilling stare made Tréville shudder. A menacing smirk spread across the man’s face as laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. 

“Come and get me,” DuBois dared, leaping from the window and landing with a thudding splash on the mushy ground below.

Tréville rushed to the window and listened to the sound of retreating footsteps running into the darkness. The sky lit up as DuBois turned and smugly tipped his chin, reveling in his escape. 

“You’ll never catch me!” The fugitive gave one last sneering laugh before turning and running into the trees, disappearing into the darkness once again.

“I will find you, you bastard,” the captain yelled after the fugitive, “and when I do, there’ll be hell to pay for what you’ve done to my men!” 

His threat was answered with a distant laugh.

The captain kicked aside the chair used to break the glass and it crashed into the opposite wall, splintering apart after years of rot. He slowly made his way back to his men, while listening to the frightened chatter at the bottom of the stairs. The sound of quiet whispers and sniffling tears made his heart leap in his chest.

“Oh God, no,” he groaned miserably, thinking the worst. “Aramis?” he called anxiously into the darkness, knowing the medic was at the Gascon’s side.

“I’m here, Captain,” Aramis replied, opening his mouth to continue but was cut short.

“Is he. . .?” the captain couldn’t finish, leaving his question weighing heavy in the air.

“I have a pulse,” the medic quickly replied to ease the captain’s fears. “He’s alive, though I cannot tell how badly he is injured.”

“Thank God,” the captain let out a relieved breath, swallowing the emotion rising in his throat.

“Captain, I can’t help d’Artagnan when I can’t see a damn thing!” Aramis complained in frustration. “I need more than the occasional lightning flash if I’m going to take care of him.”

“Gentlemen, we need to get a fire going,” the captain resolved, still standing at the top of the stairs. “There is a fireplace in the parlor, go look and see if there is a stocked wood rack; there should also be a firesteel and flint. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, we can find some candles to light our way when searching for supplies.”

“If I’m going to do surgery on d’Artagnan, I’m going to need more than the sporadic lightning,” Aramis insisted. “Getting a fire going is good idea.” 

“How bad is the wound?” Tréville asked, frowning at the howling wind coming through the broken front door. 

“I _can_ tell you that the ball hit him in the side, but without proper lighting, I cannot tell you how severe it is,” Aramis replied with irritation. “But it also appears that he smacked his head while falling down the stairs; I feel a knot growing on his forehead. If there are more injuries. . .”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s hard to see in this dark house,” the captain interjected, his patience growing thin with their helpless situation. “I want you men to go in the parlor and do what you can to get a fire going; we will move d’Artagnan in there once the room is ready.”

As the men headed into the parlor, the captain gingerly made his way down the stairs; he kept a tight grip on the handrail, feeling with his foot before taking the next step down. Thinking he had reached the final step, he walked forward only to stumble down the last two steps. Had it not been for the iron grip he had on the railing, he would have sprawled across the injured Gascon.

“Dammit!”

“Captain! Captain, are you alright?” Aramis exclaimed with alarm. “Are you hurt?”

“No, dammit, I’m fine,” the captain growled angrily. He unwrapped himself from the banister with a hiss of pain as his strained shoulder protested. 

“Then why does it sound like you hurt yourself?”

“I merely stumbled, it’s nothing,” Tréville stated unconvincingly. _This is Aramis you’re talking to, not some greenhorn recruit,_ he reminded himself. 

“Captain?”

“I wrenched my shoulder stumbling down these last couple of stairs,” he sighed, scolding himself for his clumsiness. “No need to worry about it, Aramis; you have your hands full right now.”

“Well, I’d like to take a look at that shoulder later, and make sure it’s fine,” Aramis requested, though they both knew it wasn’t a request. “This damn place is beginning to feel like a house of horrors,” he muttered under his breath.

“We cannot blame the house for my clumsiness.” 

“Perhaps not, but we can blame DuBois!” Aramis hissed angrily. “Damn him for putting us in this situation! That bastard is the reason why we’re here in this god-forsaken house, and he’s the reason why d’Artagnan is lying in a pool of his own blood. He is the reason why Athos and Porthos are hurt, and why you almost fell down the stairs. . .”

“Are you finished?” Captain Tréville calmly interrupted, fully understanding the medic’s pent-up anger and frustration. “We’ll get him, but it will have to wait; for now, let us direct our focus on helping d’Artagnan.” 

“You’re right, of course,” Aramis sighed, acquiescing to the captain’s sage advice. The medic shifted gears, putting aside his rage toward DuBois and returning his attention back to the patient at hand. 

“What do you need, Aramis?” Captain Tréville asked, anticipating the medic’s list of requests.

“First, we need to locate a needle and thread so I can close these wounds. I will also need some towels or cloths I can use as bandages, and a bottle of wine, if we can find any. I must have some water to boil, so we need to find a cooking pot to put over the fire—I do not dare treat his wounds with dirty equipment—and that includes the sewing needle and thread.”

“Agreed, we must take precautions, considering the state of this old house; the last thing d’Artagnan needs is to get an infection,” the captain huffed, shuddering at the very thought. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to find all that you require, but we’ll our best,” Tréville said, looking around the room as it lit up in a momentary flash of lightning.

“Captain, where are we going to find a sewing needle and thread in this old house?” Musketeer Lémieux asked. “And wine? There’s no telling how long this house has been abandoned; would the wine still be palatable?"

“Well, it should be, generally speaking, as long as the bottle hasn’t been opened or tampered with,” the captain replied with hesitation. “However, it begs the question of how many years the wine has been aging.” 

“Hopefully the wine will still have medicinal value and can be used as a disinfectant, though I wouldn’t recommend drinking it,” Aramis interjected. “As for the needle and thread, I would assume there was a lady of the house; certainly, there would be servants who tended to the family’s clothing. Look for a sewing basket in the boudoir or sitting room; the basket should have needles, thread, and shears for cutting, perhaps even a blade for slicing.”

“As soon as we get the fire going, we’ll move d’Artagnan into the parlor where you can see what you’re doing. If we can find candles, we’ll begin searching for the tools you need,” Captain Tréville spoke into the darkness. “Just keep pressure on that wound,” he ordered, searching for the medic’s shoulder until he found it, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Take good care of him.”

“Yes, Sir, already doing just that,” the medic acknowledged with a nod, though it went unseen in the dark. Aramis pressed his blue sash harder into the Gascon’s side. “You’re going to owe me a new sash, mon ami,” he teased, releasing a shaking breath.

The captain shuffled into the parlor where the men had located the firesteel and flint, and were busily working at getting a fire started. Tréville could hear the familiar _click, click click_ of the flint striking the steel, attempting to spark the char cloth and nurture a flame. 

“Do you have a bundle of tow, or something similar to burn once we have a spark?” the captain asked over the men’s frustrated chatter.

“Yes, Sir, we found some nesting material, but it’s just not lighting,” Musketeer Peseux complained, though no sooner had he spoken when a spark fell on the char cloth and spread. The burning ember was tossed into the nesting material, which crackled and burst alight, growing into a dancing flame. 

The men quickly gathered the kindling around the flame until it caught fire sufficiently for the logs to burn. Soon, a large fire was blazing with an occasional snapping and popping of the wood; it lit up the parlor with a warm, pleasant glow. 

The Musketeers whistled in awe as they looked around the firelit room, taking notice of the tall windows and elegant crown molding accentuating a high ceiling. An ornately carved hardwood mantel crowned the fireplace, decorated with tall silver candlesticks, stained dark with tarnish and layers of dust.

All eyes were drawn to two large oil paintings, framed with extravagantly carved gold trim. One was of a stately gentleman of high social status—perhaps a ranking nobleman, and owner of the château. Beside him, an impressive portrait of a beautiful woman dressed in a gown of gold; her blond curls fell loosely over her fair shoulders, her features flawless. 

“Hmm, perhaps this is the master of the house and his wife,” the captain murmured in a soft voice as he studied the paintings. “Madame is quite lovely, and apparently much younger than her husband.” 

“It’s obvious the family was very wealthy, so why is the house now abandoned and in ruin?” asked Musketeer Javon, seemingly mesmerized by the oil paintings, especially that of the young woman. 

“I cannot answer that, Javon,” the captain replied, turning away from the paintings. “Right now, we have more pressing matters. Are there any candles in here?” 

The men searched the room and discovered an elegant sideboard against the wall, opposite of the fireplace. Opening the top drawer, they discovered a brass wick trimmer and candle snuffers. In the second drawer, they found their desired supply of candles; the wicks were yellowed from age, but otherwise in good condition.

“We’re in luck, Sir,” Javon happily announced. “We have candles!”

“Very good!” Captain Tréville exclaimed with a breath of relief. “Lémieux and Fernier, carefully help Aramis move d’Artagnan over to the fireplace. Verday and Peseux, I hate to ask this, but we need water; go see if there is a cistern outside and collect as much water as you can. Keep your eyes and ears open, and be careful! Let’s get moving, gentlemen.”

****

**~§~**

“Captain, I need that water!” Aramis growled impatiently. The medic rolled up another fold of his blood-stained sash after the last fold had become too saturated. “He’s losing a lot of blood. Where is that damn needle and thread?”

“Where are the men with that water, dammit?” The captain stood abruptly, moving to the front door and peeking outside into the darkness. His eyes darted back and forth, searching the trees for signs of movement, “Verday? Peseux? Where in the bloody hell are you?” he hissed, whispering into the night. 

“We’re here, Sir,” Verday answered. “We have the water!”

“Thank God,” Captain Tréville muttered under his breath. “I’ll take the water. I want you both to stand guard right here by the door; do _not_ let anyone in that door from this point on. Do you understand me? If anyone tries to force their way in, shoot him!”

“Captain, we have the candles ready,” Javon stated, pointing to the four brightly burning candles fitted into the silver candlesticks. “And we also have a pot here so Aramis can begin boiling the water.”

“Aramis, get that water started,” the captain ordered. “We’ll be back as soon as possible.” 

“Please hurry, Captain!” Aramis pleaded, his eyes large with fear and worry.

“We will, Aramis,” the captain assured the medic. “You three men are with me.” Tréville led the remaining Musketeers toward the stairs, each with a candle clutched in their fist. “We’ll start upstairs, at the end of the hallway and work our way down.”

As the four men ascended the stairs into the darkness, the flames on the candles flickered and then eerily dimmed. The air was stale and thick with dust, making a few of the men cough. Tall shadows danced almost freakishly on the wall and followed their every move.

“Why is it so cold up here, Sir?” Lemieux asked, shuddering at the chill.

“There’s a broken window in the last bedchamber down the hall,” Captain Tréville replied, noticing the anxiety on the men’s faces. “We’re all experienced Musketeers, so remember your training, gentlemen.”

“Sir, we can cover more ground if we split up,” Javon suggested.

“Very good idea, Javon,” the captain agreed. “You and Lémieux will check the rooms to the right; Fernier and I will check the rooms to the left.” 

“Are we just looking for the sewing basket up here, Sir?” Lémieux asked.

“If you find any clean cloths to use as bandages, by all means, take those as well,” the captain instructed. “If you find the necessary items, shout and let us know—we need to get these things down to Aramis as quickly as possible.”

The captain led Fernier to the bedchamber across the hall from where DuBois had made his escape. The men entered the large room where their eyes were immediately drawn to the elaborate bed with a high canopy and curtains drawn all around. 

The temperature dropped noticeably in the room, and the hairs on the back of their necks prickled. Before the men even reached the bed, the curtains flowed out as though caught by a breeze or someone passing by. 

“Did you see that?” Fernier squeaked, his heart thumping in his chest. He gasped as the captain drew his sword and used it to slowly part the curtains; he held his candle high, searching but finding nothing hidden in the darkened space. 

Satisfied, Tréville released the breath he was holding and let the curtain fall back, though he held onto his sword. “Dammit, DuBois has us acting like frightened school children.” 

As the duo left the bedchamber to continue their search, they heard the excited shouts from Lémieux and Javon that the desired sewing basket and cloths had been found.

The group dropped off the materials to a jubilant and relieved medic. “Thank God!” Aramis exclaimed as he rummaged through the basket, finding the necessary needles, thread and shears.

The captain and the group of men turned to continue on their search of the house, but watched with interest as Aramis placed the items into the pot of boiling water to sanitize. 

“I still need that wine,” Aramis reminded them without looking up from his work, cutting strips of cloth into bandages.

“We’re going to look for the wine cellar now,” the captain replied with a nod. “Javon, you stay here and assist Aramis in taking care of d’Artagnan. You other two, come with me.” 

Once again, Captain Tréville led the men through the main level of the mansion, poking their heads into darkened rooms until finding the master’s office.

The once-tidy room was in disarray with furniture turned over and broken; papers were strewn over the top of the desk and scattered around on the floor. If the captain didn’t know any better, he would think the damage was intentional, as though someone was looking for something.

“What is this?” Fernier asked, after crunching a piece of glass under his boot. The Musketeer knelt down to examine the flooring, setting his candlestick on the floor to get a better look. “Captain, do you see this broken glass?”

“Hmm, it appears to have been a brandy snifter,” the captain said, picking up a large piece to examine it more closely. “Considering someone of his wealth, I imagine he enjoyed sipping on Cognac—the finest brandy in France.” 

“My God! Captain, take a look at this!” Fernier blurted out, pointing to the floor. “Look at the dark staining of the grain in this wood, and in these cracks, and. . . look, it extends out into a circle, as though. . .”

“. . . as though a body lay here in a pool of blood,” Captain Tréville finished, his eyes widening at the ominous stain.

“Exactly,” Fernier agreed. “It looks like there may have been a fight, and. . .” his voice trailed as his eyes followed the scattered broken glass to something shiny, concealed underneath the settee. “What is this?” the Musketeer asked, pulling out the hidden object.

“My God!” Captain Tréville exclaimed, surprised at the dagger Fernier held in his hand. The blade was covered in blood, flaking and faded to a dark brown. “It appears that you may have found the murder weapon,” he said, his eyes darting between the blade and the blood-stained wood.

“Captain, take a look at this!” Lémieux shouted by the desk, holding up an old, faded parchment.

The captain took the proffered parchment and began reading, his eyes growing wider as they scanned the document. “This letter is dated 8th of June, 1610, to one Michel Louis du Vaires, Marquis de Montois. My God, a marquis!” he gasped.

“That would certainly explain the opulence,” Lémieux replied, his eyes roving the handsomely decorated office. 

“This letter states that the Marquis de Montois wrongfully denied one, Mathieu Faucheux, his legal birthright. . .” his voice trailed as he read the letter quietly. “The son has sued, demanding his birth be legitimized in the courts, so that he may claim his title and share in the inheritance due him as the only male heir.”

“The marquis had an illegitimate son suing to claim his birthright,” Fernier surmised. “I would guess that news didn’t go over well.”

“So, the marquis was murdered by this Mathieu Faucheux?” Lémieux asked no one in particular. “Perhaps, his bastard son paid a call to the house demanding official, legal status in the family and a fight ensued.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to kill the only man who could confirm one’s birthright,” Fernier stated.

“Perhaps, the marquis had no intention of confirming the bastard son, and that’s what led to him being killed,” Captain Tréville deduced, dropping the letter back onto the desk.

“But what about the marquise?” Lémieux asked, cringing as he examined the blood-stained dagger. “What of the other children, if there were any?”

“Again, more questions we cannot possibly answer,” Tréville replied, “but, perhaps, we can look into this matter at another time. Let us quickly look for the brandy and get it back to Aramis—we’ve wasted enough time already.”

As the men made their way to the kitchen, the mystery of the murder still weighed heavily on their minds. “Maybe the son also murdered the marquise,” Fernier blurted his thoughts aloud. 

“Maybe the son was caught and hanged, and that’s why the château has been empty ever since, but that still doesn’t explain what happened with the marquise; why didn’t she remain in this fine house,” Lémieux wondered aloud.

“Maybe the spirit of the marquis is haunting this place,” Fernier stated grimly. “The forest itself is cursed; perhaps DuBois is the marquis reincarnated and is out for revenge.” 

“Gentlemen, that is absurd,” the captain scoffed. “There is no such thing as reincarnation; nor do I believe in curses, or ghosts. . .”

“But how do you know, Captain?” Lémieux respectfully challenged. “Considering everything that has happened, I am inclined to believe this house—this whole damn forest—is cursed! We’ve already lost one of our brothers, and another is badly injured. We have several hours to go until daylight, and that’s plenty of time for _plenty_ to go wrong.” 

“I have a bad feeling that we’re going to find out if there’s any truth to that curse,” Fernier muttered. “Something terrible happened here, and I feel we’re going to regret ever following DuBois into the devil’s lair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marquis mentioned in this story is completely fictional and does NOT exist, just an FYI.
> 
> Interesting factoid:  
> The French noble rank of 'marquis' is called 'marquess' in the UK and Ireland; the wife of a marquis/marquess is 'marquise' in France, but in the UK and Ireland she is the 'marchioness'.
> 
> History of Cognac:
> 
> The origin of Cognac dates back to the 16th century by Dutch settlers; in fact, the word "brandy" comes from the Dutch word "brandewijn" which means burnt wine.
> 
> Brandy is made all over the world, but only brandy made in the Cognac region of France, and under the strictest guidelines, can be called "Cognac." (This is exactly similar to the rules of Champagne, allowing only the wine from that region of France to be called "Champagne.") The Cognac region stretches over two regions in western France, Charente-Maritime (bordering the Atlantic Ocean), and Charente (more inland).
> 
> According to regulations, the Cognac must be aged for at least 30 months in French oak coming primarily from the Limousin and Tronçais forests in central France. It must be obtained through double distillation in traditional copper Charentais stills. The producers may only distil between November 1st and March 31st following the harvest. And the wine used must come from specific white grape varieties.
> 
> Fun Fact:
> 
> Brandy snifters are traditionally crafted from very thin, fine crystal, with a stoutly-set, bottom-heavy bell and stumpy stem made for holding in one's palm between the fingers. The rounded shape of the glass is engineered to allow drinkers to inhale the brandy's aroma with each sip, letting the liquor's "bouquet" and its various notes unfold to tickle the nostrils. When accurately poured (about six ounces per glass), a proper snifter can be turned over on its side without spilling a single drop.


	10. Tréville's Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Marquis de Montois just saved your life, Captain!” Fernier exclaimed with certainty. “He’s your guardian angel!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be writing this weekend due to the Easter holiday, so I gave you an extra long chapter to mull over. This chapter includes a good dose of our favorite Papa Tréville, who doesn't get enough attention in our fandom. Things have gone from bad to worse - and it appears a certain two might be in trouble... sorry for the cliffie, but I couldn't help myself! Thank you to Mountain Cat for finding my mistakes.  
> I want to wish all of you a lovely and Blessed Easter. He is Risen!

**Parlor, Château de Montois:**

“Move that candle a little closer, Javon,” Aramis instructed, as he squinted to see in the dim light. 

“I think I’m going to be sick!” Javon said, turning his head as he coughed, nearly gagging.

“Listen, pull yourself together, dammit!” Aramis snapped, out of patience. “If you cannot handle being my assistant, I’ll replace you with someone else who can.”

“Javon, why don’t you go stand watch for a while,” Captain Tréville ordered, motioning with his head toward the door. “What do you need, Aramis?” he asked, setting the bottles of Cognac by the fireplace.

Aramis let out a sigh, relieved to have his trusted captain at his side. “If you could move that candle in closer, I need to make sure he has no internal damage.” 

“How bad is it?” Tréville asked, bracing himself for grim news. “Be honest with me.” 

Aramis looked up, hearing the worry in his captain’s voice. “Despite the circumstances,” he snorted, glancing around the room, “he’s extremely lucky—though I know luck had nothing to do with this.” 

“What do you mean?” Captain Tréville asked, peering around the medic to get a better look.

“The storm worked incredibly in d’Artagnan’s favor, if you can believe it,” Aramis huffed incredulously at their good fortune. “The darkness was disorienting enough, but the lightning flash temporarily blinded DuBois, causing his aim to be off.”

“He could have killed any one of us,” Tréville said, nodding with understanding.

“That’s right, if he had been able to see,” Aramis took a shaking breath, “he could have shot d’Artagnan—or even you—square in the chest, killing either of you instantly. Instead, DuBois shot too far to the right, hitting him here in the side,” the medic said, pointing to the entrance and exit wounds. “It was a clean shot, through-and-through.”

“I never thought I’d be so grateful for lightning,” Tréville murmured. 

“Me neither,” Aramis concurred in a whisper. “If the ball had hit further left or higher up, there would have been _nothing_ I could have done to save him—not out here, and not with these,” the medic scoffed, holding up the cutting shears and blade.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone was looking out for our young Gascon,” Tréville said, gently patting the unconscious Musketeer on the leg. “What can you tell me about his condition?” 

“Thankfully, the ball passed through his side, between his bottom rib and above his hip, without hitting bone; if the ball had hit his hipbone, it’s likely it would have shattered—and then he’d be in serious trouble. All in all, he’s very, very fortunate.” 

“Is there likely to be any internal damage?”

“Judging from the location of the wound, it’s not deep enough to have hit the major organs, which is incredibly fortunate,” the medic replied. “I’m going to cut a small incision, just enough to explore and make certain there is no internal damage. . .” his voice trailed as he sliced the blade across the skin. 

“Where in the world did you learn to do this, Aramis?” the captain asked, watching with interest. “I knew you were adept, but this goes beyond a medic’s skill.” 

“Doctor Laurent has allowed me to assist him in recent surgeries,” Aramis admitted, smiling at the captain’s surprise. “He said it might come in handy one day, given our line of work.”

“If you ever decide to leave the Musketeers, you can always become a physician!” Lémieux chimed in.

“Not any time soon, I hope,” Tréville said, catching Aramis’ glance.

“Alright, let’s get that Cognac,” Aramis said, motioning his head toward the bottle. “Captain, go ahead and pour the brandy over these wounds and clean the area, then we’ll get started.”

Tréville poured the brandy liberally over d’Artagnan’s side, catching the excess with a towel and using it to clean the skin. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Not at this time,” Aramis whispered, engrossing himself in his work. The medic guided the needle and thread, looping it around and through the skin, creating perfect sutures until the entrance wound was closed. “Now we do the same with the exit wound,” he said, repeating the process over again.

“Well done, Aramis, this is fine stitch work,” Captain Tréville complimented after examining the wounds. “Are you going to bandage him now?”

“No, we need a salve to put over these wounds to help prevent later infection,” Aramis replied with some hesitation. “There is a perfect salve readily available, considering our current location, but. . .” 

“Where can you get any salve in the middle of the forest?” Tréville asked, confused.

“Captain, we are surrounded by pine trees,” Aramis broached cautiously. “If we can collect some resin, I can make an ointment; pine sap works wonders against infection.”

“How do you know all this?” 

“I read,” Aramis huffed in reply, “what most consider boring reading material. However, the medical journals have a wealth of information; it’s where I’ve learned most everything I know.”

“Um, Aramis, you mentioned collecting pine resin,” Fernier said, “which means someone has to go outside.”

“I am _not_ going outside!” Javon exclaimed resolutely. “That is suicide; DuBois is out there!”

“Surely, the ointment can wait,” Lémieux chimed in.

“You are absolutely _insane_ if you think any of us should risk going out there with that lunatic lurking about,” Javon continued. 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Tréville shouted above the yelling. “Not one of you is in any position to argue,” he rebuked the men. “I am the captain and _I_ am in command here!”

“Captain, isn’t the Cognac sufficient for now?” Lémieux asked, deliberately avoiding the medic’s glare. “At least until daylight?”

“I wouldn’t ask anyone to go outside if I wasn’t willing to go out there myself,” Aramis asserted, struggling to control his temper. “I know it’s dangerous, but the risk of d’Artagnan contracting an infection is very real; and I cannot completely trust the Cognac, due to its age. The pine resin is a healing agent that I do trust and I _must_ have it!”

“So why don’t _you_ go outside and collect that pine resin yourself then?” Javon retaliated angrily.

“Verday, Peseux!” Captain Tréville shouted to the men at the door. “Come in here, now!”

“Yes, Sir?” the men echoed, anxiously exchanging glances.

“You two will stay in here, guarding d’Artagnan,” the captain ordered. “Do not let anyone in this room until we return; the rest of us are going outside to collect some pine resin.”

“Captain, surely it doesn’t take all of us. . .”

“I said we were _all_ going!” Captain Tréville snapped, glaring at his insolent men. “I understand tensions are high after what happened here tonight, but I will _not_ excuse such blatant disregard for my orders again, am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir!” the men echoed in compliance.

“Now, everyone is to take a candle so we have plenty of light,” the captain began, “and I want each of you to make sure your pistols are loaded and ready.”

“Captain, I’ll go without a candle,” Aramis insisted. “I need my hands free, except for my main gauche. I’m going to be busy cutting through the bark and harvesting the sap, so the rest of you have to watch my back.”

“But what about your sprained ankle?” Captain Tréville asked, pointing to the medic’s foot. “You shouldn’t risk hurting yourself further.” 

“I have no other choice, Captain,” Aramis retorted. “I know exactly what I need, and I do not expect anyone else to jeopardize their safety while I sit in here. D’Artagnan’s care must come first,” he glowered at his brother Musketeers.

“Fine, but you take it easy on that ankle,” the captain relented, albeit reluctantly. “You let us watch out for DuBois while you do your work. Everyone get your pistols ready, and your candlesticks, and let’s go.”

****

**~§~**

“I’m not getting enough resin from this tree,” Aramis grumbled, wiping his main gauche on the bark before standing. “I’ll try another tree.” 

The group moved in unison, their eyes darting around nervously as Aramis searched for another tree. “This one should do nicely,” the medic said. He let out a hiss of pain as he knelt in front of a thick pine and began digging into the bark.

“Come on, this is taking too long!” Javon complained bitterly.

“If I hear one more sour word from you I’m putting you on report,” Captain Tréville threatened, losing patience.

The men grew quiet, listening to Aramis chipping away at the tree as the wind whistled through the pines. Their eyes suddenly widened at the sound of something running, and coming their way. 

Captain Tréville turned in the direction of the noise, holding up his candle to illuminate the darkness; behind him, he heard the familiar clicking of the pistols to fully-cocked position, ready to fire.

The men raised their pistols as the running footsteps barreled ever closer. “Steady, men,” Captain Tréville ordered in a whisper. “Hold your fire until we’re sure of what it is.”

Suddenly, a wild boar came rushing out of the trees, its eyes wide with fright. The captain flinched as one of the Musketeers fired his pistol, the ball going high over the animal and lodging in a tree. The boar charged right and then left, as if unsure in which direction to run; finally, it ran past the men and disappeared into the darkness.

“I said to hold your fire!” Captain Tréville admonished in a hissing whisper. 

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Javon apologized, “but I thought it was DuBois!”

“Something out there scared that boar,” Fernier stated nervously, “they don’t run like that unless there’s a reason.” 

“That’s right. . .”

Shhh, stop talking!” Tréville hushed the men, raising his pistol in the direction of the trees. “He’s out there; I hear him moving around.” 

“Captain, let’s get back inside the house!” Lémieux hissed, his eyes wide with fright. “Aramis, hurry the hell up, man!”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Aramis snapped, “but I don’t have enough resin.”

“To hell with the resin!” Javon erupted, “it’s not worth our lives!”

“But d’Artagnan _is_ worth it, damn you!” Aramis suddenly sprang to his feet, getting right in Javon’s face. “We are out here for a _specific_ reason!”

"Alright, that’s enough!” the captain ordered, pulling the medic away from the argumentative Musketeer. “Aramis, finish your work; Javon, I’m putting you on report once we return to the garrison.”

"Captain!” Lémieux alerted, putting his finger over his lips to quiet the men. He pointed to the trees on their right, “he’s over there.” 

“He’s trying to flank us,” Fernier whispered, turning to where Aramis was busily collecting a large chunk of resin. “Are you almost done?”

“Yes, I just tapped into a good supply,” Aramis replied in a hurried whisper. “Just give me another minute. . .”

The men listened anxiously to the sound of fallen leaves crunching, and the occasional twig snapping on the forest floor. The eerie noises seemed to fade in and out, changing direction on the blowing wind. 

“Come on, Aramis!” Fernier blurted over his shoulder, guarding the kneeling and vulnerable medic. “Hurry up!”

“He’s coming!” Lémieux shouted a warning. He leveled his pistol as he stepped to the right, tripping over a large branch; the fall sent his pistol flying and the candle falling into the leaves.

_Zzzzzzziiiiiiiipppppp!_

_Thunk!_

Lémieux gasped in horror at the arrow, buried deep inside the tree at chest height, right where he had just been standing. “Mon Dieu! If I hadn’t tripped, he would have killed me!”

“Aramis?” Captain Tréville hissed with alarm. “How much longer?”

“Captain, there he is!” Fernier shouted, pointing into the trees.

_Ha, ha, ha,_ a voice laughed. “Pathetic Musketeers,” the distant voice taunted. 

Captain Tréville snapped his head in the direction of the voice and fired into the trees. He watched as the dark figure dodged behind a tree and then ran off, disappearing into the void. “Dammit!” he cursed at missing his mark. “Aramis, how much longer?”

“I’m done!” Aramis gasped in pain as he jumped to his feet, but then crumpled under his own weight. If not for the steadying hands of the captain, he would have fallen to the ground and spilled his precious resin. “Thank you!”

“Fire!” Fernier shouted, running to stomp out the fire spreading across the leaf litter on the forest floor. 

Without thinking, Lémieux reached out and began stamping out the fire with his bare hand, the pain not yet registering. 

“Lémieux, stop!” Captain Tréville ordered, stomping out the last of the flames under his boots. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, helping the stunned Musketeer to his feet. “Back to the house, everyone, now!”

The rag-tag group of Musketeers hastily made their way back to the château. Aramis was grateful for the support of his brother Musketeers, wrapping their arms tightly around his waist; he clutched tightly to the container in his hands, knowing the precious resin had come at great risk to their lives.

The group burst into the château, as Verday and Peseux pushed a heavy, mirrored console table in front of the doors, obstructing anyone who would try to barge through.

"I need to post guards at the windows. . .” Captain Tréville started, but was interrupted. 

“Captain, we cannot possibly guard this entire house! DuBois could sneak inside any of the windows in the back and be on us before we know it!” Lémieux warned. 

“Stay alert, men!” the captain retorted, “and let’s hope he stays outside.” 

****

**~§~**

As the hours slowly passed, the men were subjected to constant taunts, jeers, and laughter from DuBois outside. Aramis distracted the men by carrying on conversations while taking care of their injuries.

“Lémieux, I know you burned yourself out there,” the medic whispered, taking the Musketeer’s hand. “Let me apply this ointment and bandage your hand while it’s quiet.”

Aramis proceeded to apply the salve and bandage the burned hand when a rock suddenly crashed through the window, narrowly missing his head. 

“Madre de Dios!” the medic cursed, stumbling into Lémieux as he lost his balance. “Damn you, DuBois!” 

Captain Tréville ran to window, grimacing as the fugitive turned to glare, his face twisted with hatred. “You’re mine!” he yelled, disappearing. 

“Maybe we should move upstairs where we’ll be safer,” Aramis suggested. “We’re too vulnerable down here!”

“Captain, we could move to that bedchamber we inspected earlier,” Fernier proposed, “it had large, heavy furniture to block the door.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Tréville agreed, nodding. “Fernier, I want you to grab as much wood as you can carry; we’ll need to start another fire in the room. Lémieux, bring the rest of the candles and anything else we need. The rest of you can help Aramis up those stairs and carry d’Artagnan. Let’s move!”

The men scurried about, grabbing the necessary items, before making their way upstairs. Javon wrapped his arm around the medic’s waist, supporting Aramis as he clutched the resin in one hand and a bottle of Cognac in the other.

“Be careful with d’Artagnan,” Captain Tréville instructed the remaining two men. They picked up the wounded Musketeer, carrying him toward the stairs as the captain took up the rear, guarding the men. 

**_CRASH!_ **

“Oh God, oh God,” Peseux cried out, nearly dropping d’Artagnan on the stairs. “He’s in the house!” 

“Get d’Artagnan in that bedroom and lock yourselves in!” Captain Tréville ordered. 

“But, Captain!”

“Do as I say!” the captain snapped, turning as he heard the sound of crunching glass. He readied his pistol, as he slowly made his way back down the stairs and toward the noise.

Suddenly, DuBois sprang like a cat out of the darkness, knocking Tréville backward and pinning him against the stairs. The captain raised his pistol against the assailant’s side, but the weapon was wrenched from his hand with a sickening twist.

Tréville howled as his sore shoulder erupted in white-hot pain, burning like shock waves down his spine. With his injured shoulder rendered useless, the captain was no match for the savage strength of the fugitive. 

The captain braced himself, sucking in a hitched breath as he caught sight of the raised stiletto; the slender blade glowed with the reflection of the fire still ablaze in the parlor. 

An unexpected and sudden crash of a falling statue stopped DuBois in mid-stride, the knife suspended as though held by an unseen hand. The villain turned his head, searching for the perpetrator, but saw nothing. “Who’s there?” 

Captain Tréville struggled to break loose, releasing DuBois from his stupor; the fugitive lifted the blade and pointed it once again toward the captain’s chest. 

Tréville fought to keep the dagger from plunging into his chest, hissing in pain as the blade sliced through his fingers and across his palm. DuBois wrestled the knife from the captain’s grasp then turned it to slice across the neck. 

A portrait of the marquis with his wife suddenly fell off the wall and bounced down the stairs, hitting DuBois and knocking the knife free from his hand.

“What the. . .?” DuBois shouted, standing abruptly in shock. 

Captain Tréville took advantage and scrambled away, running up the stairs to the bedchamber. He listened with surprise as he heard DuBois bolt through the front door, and retreat into the darkness.

****

**~§~**

“I don’t think DuBois will be coming back, but it never hurts to be proactive,” Tréville muttered, leaning heavily against the wall in the well-protected bedchamber.

“Captain, what in the hell happened out there?” Aramis asked, jumping to his feet with alarm. “You’re bleeding! Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure, dammit!” Tréville blurted, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure. “It was the strangest thing. . .”

“Captain, I think you need to sit down,” Aramis said, guiding his leader to sit by the fireplace. “Let me take a look at that wound.”

The captain held out his hand, smeared and dripping with blood; his movements were slow, still dazed from the fight on the stairs. 

“Ah, dammit!” Tréville yelped, gasping as the medic turned his hand over, examining the wounds.

“You hurt your shoulder out there again, didn’t you?” Aramis surmised as the captain flinched at his touch. “Let’s get this doublet off; I’m going to need to examine that shoulder and stitch these wounds. Oh no, the sewing basket is downstairs in the parlor!”

“No, I grabbed it,” Lémieux corrected, pointing to the indispensable basket.

“Thank God,” Aramis breathed a sigh of relief. “Bring it here, and then help me get this doublet off him. Captain, I need you to hold still and let us do the work.”

“Go ahead,” the captain whispered, nodding. He clenched his teeth, groaning in pain as the leather garment was carefully peeled from his body.

Aramis examined the captain’s hand, wiping away the blood to reveal deep slashes across the fingers and the palm. “These are going to require stitches,” he grimly announced. “First, I’m going to have to disinfect the needle and thread, and then I’ll clean these wounds with the Cognac.” The medic bit his lip, dreading the pain it would cause his captain. “It’s going to sting.”

“Just do what you have to,” Tréville gave in, steeling himself as he watched the liquid pour. “Ah, my God, it burns!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis apologized, engaging the captain in conversation to keep his mind off the pain. “So, how did you manage to fight DuBois off?”

“Somehow, I had help,” the captain admitted with disbelief. “I can’t exactly explain what happened; a statue fell over by itself, and then that portrait by the stairs fell off the wall and flew at DuBois.”

“What do you mean, it flew?”

“It came off the wall and hit DuBois, knocking the knife right out of his hand,” Tréville explained incredulously. “That is the _only_ reason why I was able to get away. I would almost think that. . .”

“. . . that the marquis was protecting you!” Aramis interjected, his eyes wide with realization.

“Marquis de Montois just saved your life, Captain!” Fernier exclaimed with certainty. “He’s your guardian angel!” 

“No, there has to be a logical explanation,” the captain stated, shaking his head adamantly.

“Sir, there is no other explanation!” Lémieux countered. “If it hadn’t been for the marquis, DuBois would have sliced your throat like he did Colbert!”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Captain Tréville replied, though his voice indicated his uncertainty. 

“Sometimes we have to allow ourselves to believe in things we cannot prove or understand,” Aramis interjected, as he finished suturing and bandaging the hand. The medic took a handful of pine resin and massaged it gently into the captain’s wrenched shoulder. “It’s called having faith,” he smiled.

“The life of a soldier can make one’s heart grow hard and immune to the brutalities of mankind,” Tréville admitted softly. “I lost faith in God—and in people—a long time ago, but. . . perhaps the marquis has helped restore what I had lost.”

“It appears the marquis didn’t want DuBois around any more than we did,” Aramis chuckled. The medic carefully guided the captain’s arm back into his shirt sleeve and doublet, before securing the arm in a makeshift sling.

“This reign of terror DuBois has forced upon us will stop,” Captain Tréville determined, his jaw set hard. “It’s almost morning, we’re going after that bastard at first light. This ends today!”

**MORNING:**

The first rays of the early morning sun filtered through the window and fell on d’Artagnan, warming his face. The injured Gascon stirred, wincing at the bright light shining in his eyes. “Oh, my head,” d’Artagnan moaned. “What happened? Where. . . where am I?”

“D’Artagnan, what do you remember?” Aramis asked with concern. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“I don’t. . . I don’t remember. . .”

“You don’t remember the château?” Aramis gently reminded, his concern growing. “It was dark. . .”

“How could you possibly forget about DuBois?” Javon cracked without a thought. “You must’ve taken a harder blow to your head than we thought!”

Aramis and the captain shot an angry glare Javon’s way. The captain opened his mouth to scold the man but was interrupted.

“Mon Dieu! I remember. . . I remember everything!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, trying to sit up. “I remember DuBois at the top of the stairs. . .”

“Yes, he was at the top of the stairs and he shot at you, managing to hit you in the side,” Aramis divulged, adding, “which is why you fell.”

As Aramis filled the Gascon in on his injuries, the captain had the men gather at the door, preparing to go out on the hunt for DuBois.

“Wait a minute, Captain,” Aramis stood, overhearing the conversation about checking their weapons and ammunition. “Hold on, you’re not going out there without me!”

“Aramis, you have a patient to tend to,” Captain Tréville insisted, shaking his head. “Besides, your hurt ankle will only slow us down.”

“The hell it will!” Aramis retaliated, standing abruptly. “No disrespect intended, Sir, but I deserve to go, and no sprained ankle is going to keep me from hunting that bastard down!”

“And what about d’Artagnan?” the captain asked with alarm. “You’re not going to leave him here alone?”

“Captain, really,” Aramis replied with surprise, “you know me better than that. Peseux has some medical training and Verday is an excellent fighter; they could keep an eye on d’Artagnan, though I imagine he’s going to be sleeping most of the day.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” d’Artagnan grumbled, glaring at Aramis.

“I didn’t say you did, but someone should be with you for protection anyway,” Aramis responded, before turning back to the captain. “Verday and Peseux are the best men to stay, but there is no way in hell you’re leaving me behind!”

“Aramis. . .” Tréville began to protest.

The medic limped over to his long doublet and slipped it on, buttoning it up; he looked for his sash, but remembered it was blood-soaked and ruined. He strapped on his weapon’s belt and sheathed his main gauche, “I’m going with you.”

“Alright, men, let’s move,” Captain Tréville sighed, relenting before the medic’s stubborn insistence. “Peseux, Verday, I want you to move the wardrobe back in front of the door; do not let anyone into this room until we get back. D’Artagnan, try to get some rest.”

“Take good care of him,” Aramis directed the two remaining Musketeers. “Make sure he stays still and get plenty of rest.”

“Mmmm, too tir’d t’ move,” d’Artagnan slurred as his head lolled to the side, falling asleep.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville ordered.

****

**~§~**

The group of men walked through the tall grass, still wet with morning dew. The captain wrinkled his brow, taking notice of the wet ground, seemingly trampled recently by heavy boots.

“This grass looks like someone came this way not too long ago,” the captain stated, pointing to the footprints. “I’ll bet these are DuBois’ footprints.”

At the forest’s edge, the clearing revealed a large pond with stately houses scattered along the bank. Large clouds of mist rose into the air from the water where a pair of geese were lazily swimming. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Captain Tréville muttered to himself. “I know this pond! Ville d’Avray is just ahead.”

“Of course,” Aramis concurred, leaning on his walking stick while looking around. “It’s much easier to orient oneself in the daylight,” he quipped.

The men continued following the footprints around the pond, when suddenly the geese were spooked and took off in hasty flight, honking angrily at being disturbed. 

“DuBois!” the captain shouted, as he took off in a sprint. The remaining men ran after the captain, except Lémieux who stayed behind to help Aramis hobble along, trying his best to run on the sprained ankle.

“He went into the village!” Tréville yelled over his shoulder to the men. “There, I saw him go into that barn!”

“Captain, wait!” Aramis shouted in frustration. The medic watched with relief as the group stopped at the fence, waiting for the two stragglers to catch up.

“DuBois went inside that barn,” the captain said, out of breath. “If we surround the structure, we should be able to catch him inside. You three take the front entrance; Aramis and I will take the back.”

Tréville waited until the three men were in position at the front doors of the barn, nodding that they were ready. The captain held up two fingers, giving the signal to move in two minutes. 

Aramis and the captain made their way to the back of the barn, but stopped as they found the path blocked by a wagon, large cart and plow. As they moved around the equipment, the barn suddenly rocked with a violent explosion, throwing the men into the air. 

The captain’s ears buzzed loudly, muting the noise around him. Black dots danced in his vision, clearing slowly to reveal smoke billowing between the wooden slats of the barn. “Oh God, no!” 

“Aramis?” the captain called, but was met with silence. He frantically looked around when he spotted the medic, crumpled in a heap and unmoving. “Aramis? No!”

“Well, well, well, you Musketeers sure are a tough bunch, I’ll give you that,” DuBois sneered. The fugitive stepped on the captain’s hand as he tried reaching for his pistol. “Oh no, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” he laughed. “I would have thought you’d have learned that by now.” 

“DuBois, you bastard, if you have hurt. . . any more of my men, I will . . .”

“You will what? Kill me?” DuBois laughed. “Yes, you’ve said as much; your medic did as well, but it doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon. As for your other men, well, I was hoping my little trap would kill all of you in one fell swoop. But, damn, this works out even more deliciously,” he snickered, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “No, I will let you live so you can watch your men suffer.”

The fugitive reached down and grabbed Tréville by his throat and pulled him in close. “I’m going to take from you, the same as you Musketeers took from me. I will make all of you suffer; I will make you hurt, the same way you have hurt me.”

“DuBois, stop. . .” Tréville rasped, gasping for breath as the fugitive squeezed his fingers around the captain’s neck.

“I know your two men are at the garrison, recovering from their little _accident_ in the tunnels. It’s too bad they survived; I thought my plan was flawless,” he snarled wickedly. “No matter, while you’re taking a nap, I will pay a little visit to Paris and finish what I started. Your men will die with my name on their lips! This time, you can do _nothing_ to stop me,” he growled menacingly. “Game over, Captain. I win!”

He roughly threw his helpless victim back to the dirt. The captain spluttered and gasped, and then closed his eyes as his world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pine Resin:  
> Hippocrates studied pine for its great therapeutic value on the respiratory system. The resin is an excellent anti-inflammatory, mild analgesic and anti-spasmodic agent. It is often called a wonder drug, good for chest colds and congestion when rubbed into the chest as an oil or salve, or inhaled. Pine is perfect for aching joints and soothing sore muscles.
> 
> Pine salve is also great for wounds - drawing out impurities (splinters, gravel, dirt). It is a traditional medicine, handed down through generations of Native Americans when treating wounds involving infection, gangrene, septicemia and other deadly infections.
> 
> The Pond At Ville D'Avray:
> 
> French name - _L'étang de Ville d'Avray,_ was painted, circa 1867, by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot (1796-1875). The artist maintained a residence in the village and used the area as a subject for several paintings.
> 
> Ville d'Avray:
> 
> Ville d'Avray is a commune located about 12 km (7 miles) west of Paris, and east of Versailles. It is surrounded by large national parks that once formed a network of royal hunting grounds for the kings of France and his entourage. The _Etangs de Carot_ are two man-made ponds, one of which was created at the end of the Middle Ages by noblemen as a fishing reserve. The second pond was created by Louis XIV's brother, Philippe, Duke of Orléans, who needed water and power for his castle, the nearby Château de Saint-Cloud. The château was destroyed in 1870 during the Franco-Prussian War—heartbreaking!


	11. Game Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “DuBois, we have heard enough of your worthless threats,” Aramis spat through clenched teeth. “We’ve grown weary of your childish games, and we refuse to be the subject of your twisted, deranged pursuit of vengeance. You have toyed with us for the last time. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support of this story, and especially for your kind reviews and kudos. Thank you also to Mountain Cat for catching my ridiculous mistakes!
> 
> This story took a wild, spooky turn, but it's circling back around to Paris and to where the evil DuBois had started. No one is safe in this wicked game. . . but the game is finally coming to an explosive end.  
> Here's to promises fulfilled. . .

_Destruction from the explosion was immediate. Unforgiving flames gorged on the bounty set before them, destroying everything in their path. The consuming inferno suffocated the Musketeers, sucking the oxygen from their lungs._

_The unbearable heat was terrifying and sinister. It was unspeakable brutality, as the blazing tongues licked the scorched bodies, torturing, and tormenting them to their last, dying breath. . ._

“No!” Athos gasped, tossing his head from side to side, clutched in the throes of a horrifying nightmare. “No, they can’t be gone! What has he done?”

“Athos, wake up!” Porthos called out, sitting up on his bed. He carefully swung his casted leg over the edge and stood, allowing his large frame to fall into the chair next to his brother’s bed. “Athos, you’re having a bad dream; it’s not real!”

“I see the flames. . . he’s laughing!”

“Athos, you’re not in the tunnels,” Porthos began, “we’re at the garrison. . .”

“Damn!” Athos gasped. He struggled to sit up but strong hands held him down. “I must help. . . let me go!”

“I’m not lettin’ you go until you settle down,” Porthos growled, meeting his brother’s steely glare. “Look around, brother, you’re in the infirmary, not. . .”

“Yes, I know that!” Athos snapped harshly. He sighed, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face. “I saw an explosion and a large ball of flame, but it wasn’t in the tunnels; it was someplace I didn’t recognize.”

“Athos, you had a bad dream, that’s all,” Porthos assured him, squeezing his brother’s shoulder gently. “You’re still havin’ nightmares about the sewers?”

“No, this was different,” the lieutenant whispered, “it wasn’t a memory.” He rubbed his temples in a circular motion, trying to soothe away a pounding headache. “I think our brothers are in trouble.”

“Now, don’t get yourself excited over a bad dream,” Porthos interjected firmly. “I’m worried about them too, but the captain’s with ‘em, and six of our brothers.”

“I’ve tried to recall when we may have encountered DuBois, perhaps on a mission, but I’m at a loss,” Athos admitted softly. “I don’t remember hearing of him until his execution day. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I believe his actions were calculated and well-organized.”

“What are you gettin’ at?” 

“I think DuBois targeted the Musketeers with deliberate intent to do us harm,” Athos explained thoughtfully. “Perhaps he is seeking revenge.” 

“Revenge for what?” Porthos asked, his voice exuding surprise. “None of us had ever heard of ‘im before the tunnel collapse.”

Athos closed his eyes, mulling over previous missions. “I can think of no reason why DuBois would specifically seek out the Musketeers,” Athos replied after a lengthy silence. “It certainly begs the question, what if DuBois’ escape was planned from the beginning? What if he lured us. . .”

“You think he lured us into the sewers for revenge?” Porthos interrupted, his brown eyes widening with realization. 

“There is something about DuBois that just doesn’t _feel_ right,” Athos admitted, clenching his fists. “Call it intuition, but I think the captain and our brothers are in real trouble.”

“The cap’n has only been gone two days, Athos,” Porthos pointed out, sitting back in his chair. “It could take several days longer, considerin’ who they’re chasin’ after.”

“Yes, I know, but what if something has _already_ gone wrong?” Athos countered with chilling emphasis.

“Don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions,” Porthos retorted, sitting forward in his chair again. “There’s nine of them, and only one of DuBois—even he can’t overcome those odds.”

“I would feel more at ease if I knew where they were.”

“Oi, just put aside that idea,” Porthos warned him, realizing where Athos’ unspoken thoughts were going. “You gave the cap’n your word. Besides, you’re in no condition to go ridin’ around on some hunch.” 

“May I remind you that you are in no condition to ride either,” Athos huffed, knocking on Porthos’ cast. 

“Rubbish,” Porthos quipped, amusement dancing in his brown eyes. “I’ve ridden with worse injuries.” 

“Really, Porthos,” Athos drawled. “Not with a cast on your leg.” 

“It couldn’t be that hard; the horse does all the walkin’,” Porthos continued, trying not to grin. 

“You might find mounting and dismounting more than a little difficult with that cast.”

“Ah,” Porthos sniggered, smacking his hand down on his knee. “I might surprise you.”

“I am not that easily surprised,” Athos replied, his lips curling upward in a faint smile. He huffed with amusement, leaning back to relax against the pillows. Soon, his eyelids drooped as his body wilted under the pull of sleep. Giving in, he slipped away into oblivion.

“Get some rest, mon cher,” Porthos whispered. The large Musketeer remained beside the bed, ensuring his brother slept soundly without the intrusion of frightening nightmares. 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Porthos tried to convince himself, as he finally moved back to his own bed to rest. He couldn’t sleep as grim images invaded his thoughts, the seeds of doubt already blooming in his mind. 

_What if Athos is right, and somethin’ has happened to the cap’n and our brothers? We ‘ave no bloody idea where they are! DuBois, if you’ve hurt my brothers, the devil himself couldn’t keep me from killing you with my bare hands._

**VILLE D’AVRAY, LATER:**

“Monsieur!” A voice shouted, sounding muffled and strangely distant. “Monsieur, are you alright? Wake up!” 

The captain’s ears buzzed, muting the alarmed shouts. His mind was sluggish, unable to recall what happened with any sense of clarity. 

A moan escaped Tréville’s lips as pain coursed through his body, jolting him to consciousness. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing only hazy shadows, shrouded in smoke; he blinked to clear the blurriness, but let his eyes slide closed again, finding comfort in the darkness. 

“Monsieur, wake up!” the voice called again with a gentle shake of the shoulder.

Tréville moaned, trying to swat away the stranger’s hands but couldn’t move his dominant arm. “Ssstop!”

“Monsieur, we got everyone out of the barn, but they are badly hurt,” the voice said.

_The men!_

Memories flooded his mind like a crashing wave, depositing grim images of fire and billowing smoke. “My God, my men! Aramis!” 

Captain Tréville was helped to an upright position, though he leaned to the side until the dizziness passed. He focused his blurry eyes, not recognizing the worried face in front of him. “Where are my men?”

“We have moved them all out here, next to you,” the man said, pointing to the line of unconscious Musketeers. 

“Oh no!” Tréville groaned as he caught sight of his bleeding and burned men lying beside him. “Get a doctor, dammit!” the captain ordered, crawling over to get a closer look. 

Captain Tréville reached out and grasped the bloodied, unmoving hand of the first man in line. “Javon, can you hear me? Javon, answer me!” 

The unruly Musketeer was unresponsive; after taking the brunt of the explosion, his body lay broken, bleeding and badly burned. The captain instantly felt deep remorse for having scolded the man so sharply the day before. “Oh God, what have I done?” he murmured to himself. 

“Monsieur, our physician is on the way,” the man began, “he just returned from Paris only this morning.”

“Paris!” the captain exclaimed, suddenly remembering the fugitive’s threat. “Athos and Porthos. . . I must get back to Paris immediately!” 

“Monsieur, you are in no condition to ride anywhere, even the short distance to Paris,” the man said, helping the determined captain to his feet. “Won’t you allow Doctor Renauld to see to your wounds first?”

“No, I don’t have time,” Captain Tréville refused. “I must get back to the garrison,” he said, turning back only when he heard the soft moans of Aramis as he stirred. 

“You are not. . . leaving me. . . here!” Aramis croaked, rising to a slumped position. He clenched his teeth, fighting against the pain throbbing in his ribs and in his head. “If Athos and Porthos. . . are in trouble, I’m coming with you.”

“Aramis, you are in no shape to ride,” the captain admonished, noting the grimaces of pain.

“Sorry, Captain, but neither are you,” Aramis retorted, pointing to the blood streaming down his leader’s face. “If DuBois intends to. . . hurt my brothers. . . the forces of hell couldn’t stop me from trying to help.” 

“Alright, let’s go then,” Tréville relented, knowing it was another battle he couldn’t win. He helped the medic to his feet and waited as Aramis leaned forward, overcome with dizziness.

“Um, Captain, our horses are back at that cottage,” Aramis reminded him. The medic braced himself with his hands against his knees, then grimaced and bit his lip as he straightened. “I’m sorry, it was my idea to leave the horses behind.”

“Ah, dammit!” Tréville cursed, glaring at the medic.

“I didn’t know this would happen.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” Tréville replied, sighing with frustration. “It’s going to be a long walk back to the cottage.”

“You must be referring to Monsieur and Madame Hébert,” the man interjected kindly. “Their cottage is just down the road; I can take you there in my wagon.”

“Yes, thank you, Monsieur. . .?” the captain hesitated, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Pettigrew,” the man replied, adding, “Pierre Pettigrew, at your service, Monsieur. . . ?”

“My name is Tréville, Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, and these are my men,” he said, motioning to the unconscious row of three, and the stubborn medic. “I would be in your debt if you tend to them.”

“Think nothing of it,” Doctor Renauld interrupted, upon arriving at the scene. “I would consider it an honor to be of service to my king and his Musketeers!”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said, bowing his head gratefully. “I will see that you both are reimbursed, and that you are handsomely rewarded for tending to His Majesty’s men.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the doctor inquired. “May I ask, what are their names?” 

“This is Javon, Lémieux, and Fernier,” Tréville answered, pointing to each man as he called their name. “Aramis will be returning to Paris with me,” he said, motioning his head toward the medic.

“Captain, we could ask them to search for Colbert’s body,” Aramis quietly suggested.

“Oh yes, I have a man who was killed over by those large rocks in the forest,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “I have been unable to retrieve his body—his name is Colbert.”

“Of course, we will look for him after we have tended to your men,” the doctor replied. “I will make certain that Colbert is treated with honor,” he paused, “until you return to claim his body and take him home for a proper burial.”

“Thank you,” the captain said, nodding gratefully. “I will return as soon as I am able, but now we must make haste and take our leave.”

“Captain, what about d’Artagnan, Verday and Peseux?” Aramis asked, remembering the men waiting at the château.

“Damn,” Captain Tréville groaned, suddenly wilting under the burden of command. “It’s hard to think straight,” he whispered to himself.

“Captain, are you alright?” Aramis asked, bracing a supportive arm around the older man’s waist. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” the captain replied. After a brief moment, he stood upright, squaring his shoulders. “They will have to stay behind.”

“Captain!”

“We will see to your other men as well,” Monsieur Pettigrew quickly interjected before leaving to retrieve the wagon.

“Captain, if we leave d’Artagnan behind,” Aramis continued cautiously, “he’s going to be furious—to put it mildly.” 

“I cannot worry about that right now, Aramis,” Tréville argued. “We don’t have time to go back to the château, and he certainly is in no condition to ride.”

“That is true, but you know that d’Artagnan would ride through hell itself if he knew Athos and Porthos were in danger.”

“Again, we do not have time to return to the château.”

“Here we are, gentlemen,” Pettigrew said, pulling up in the wagon. “Do not worry, Captain, we will tend to _all_ of your men until you return. Shall we go?”

Captain Tréville and Aramis slowly climbed aboard the wagon, hissing in pain as their sore bodies protested the action. They sat in their seats, panting as drops of sweat left streaks and tracks through the soot on their stained faces. 

“Take good care of my men, Doctor.” Tréville glanced over his shoulder at the three wounded Musketeers, his heart filling with sorrow at having to leave them behind.

“Do not worry, Captain,” Doctor Renauld said, “they will receive the best care possible, I assure you.”

“Thank you.” Captain Tréville turned to the driver, nodding. “Let us go, quickly!”

The wagon hadn’t traveled very far when the men heard desperate shouts coming from the banks of the pond. Looking over their shoulders, the Musketeers gasped at the sight of the two men, supporting a third between them.

“Captain, it’s d’Artagnan, Verday and Peseux!” Aramis exclaimed. 

“Stop!” the captain shouted, turning to watch the men coming their way. “What in the name of Heaven are you three doing out here?” he scolded. “I thought I told you to stay in that room and get some rest!”

“Yes, Sir. . . you did say that,” d’Artagnan acknowledged, trying to catch his breath. “But. . . that was _before_ we heard what sounded like an explosion. Captain, with everything that has happened,” he paused, “we had to make sure you were alright.”

“Captain, where are you going?” Peseux asked, pointing to the wagon. 

“We must get back to Paris,” the captain replied cryptically.

“DuBois is headed to the garrison!” D’Artagnan gasped, having read the grim, hardened look on his captain’s face. “I’m going with you!”

“D’Artagnan, we are retrieving the horses and riding back to Paris,” the captain said, shaking his head. “You will not be able to keep up.” 

“Captain, if my brothers are in danger, there is no way in hell I am staying behind!” d’Artagnan insisted. “I’ll ride double with someone, if necessary, but I’m going with you.”

“Told you so,” the medic whispered under his breath.

“What was that, Aramis?” the captain snapped.

“Nothing, Captain,” Aramis quickly replied, watching as the men carefully helped the Gascon aboard before climbing in themselves.

Once all the Musketeers were aboard the wagon, they hurried through the village as a young boy rode up beside the wagon, shouting. “Father, I’ll ride ahead to have them saddle the horses, ready for when you arrive!” The boy sped off, leaving the wagon far behind. 

“So, what brings the Musketeers out this way?” Pettigrew asked after a long silence.

Captain Tréville explained their hunt for the fugitive, leading them to the château before falling quiet.

“Ah, the Château de Montois,” Pettigrew huffed, giving a whistle of surprise. “Perhaps if you knew the history of that place, you might not have followed your man in there. That house—and this forest—is cursed!”

“What do you mean, cursed?” Aramis asked, sitting forward to listen.

“The Marquis de Montois was murdered around 1610 by his bastard son. The son wanted to be legitimized and share in the family fortune. The marquis refused, and the son killed him,” Pettigrew explained. “With no one to stop him, the son took over affairs at the château and Ville d’Avray as Marquis de Montois.”

“Wait a minute,” Tréville interjected, “what about his wife, the marquise?”

“Marquise Marie de Montois died in childbirth, as did their newborn son, in 1609,” Pettigrew said. “They are buried together on the grounds of the château. It is said that the marquis never recovered; he mourned his wife and son the remainder of his days with deep, heart-wrenching sorrow.”

“What a tragic story,” d’Artagnan murmured softly.

“Ah, but there’s more,” Pettigrew said, turning the wagon on the road east. “Indeed, the marquis grieved deeply and visited their grave every day. After his daily visits, it’s rumored Marquis de Montois would stand at the pond’s edge contemplating suicide. After the murder, the bastard son ruled over the village with ruthless vigor; he was unforgiving, harsh and cruel. If a tenant didn’t pay his due taxes, his punishment was severe and brutal.” 

“What happened to the son?”

“A little over a year after the murder, the son went for a swim in the pond one day,” Pettigrew began, “and was pulled under by an unseen force. He was found tangled among the reeds; they buried him somewhere on the grounds in an unmarked grave. Now you may understand why we believe this forest is cursed.” 

“But what about the château?” d’Artagnan asked, intrigued. “Is it true that the spirit of the marquis still walks the halls?”

“Oh yes, we believe Marquis de Montois protects his home, and battles still with his bastard son,” Pettigrew shuddered. “I do not believe the marquis will ever find peace until that damned château is torn down, and the land restored to nature. The people of the village want to do this for the marquis, who was a fair and honest lord, but we lack the resources.”

“Perhaps, I can bring the subject up with His Majesty and see if this situation can be remedied,” Captain Tréville offered. “After all, the people of your village have been most hospitable to his Musketeers.”

“That would be a godsend,” Pettigrew replied. “At last, our village might find peace as well. Ah, here we are at the Hébert cottage.” 

The wounded men were helped down from the wagon and led to the saddled horses without conversation, each one lost in his private thoughts. 

“D’Artagnan, you will ride with Peseux,” Tréville ordered. He watched as the injured Gascon was helped into the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain it caused him.

“Captain, I think you should ride with Verday, considering that sling on your arm,” Aramis suggested. “I think it would be unwise to ride alone in your condition.”

“Aramis, I am perfectly capable of riding. . .”

“Captain, please, indulge me just this once,” Aramis pleaded, not wishing to argue.

“Fine, enough time has been wasted already,” Tréville said, mounting the horse with difficulty. “Let us ride hard,” he said, wrapping his good arm around Verday’s waist.

Aramis mounted his horse, quietly wincing as pain shot through his sore ribcage. The medic kicked his horse into a gallop, running to catch up to the others. 

“Captain, we may already be too late,” Aramis shouted to the captain. “DuBois left here several hours ago!”

“Yes, but time will work to our advantage, in this case.”

“How do you mean?”

“I know DuBois’ method of operating; he lurks in the shadows, attacking with stealth and disappearing without a trace,” the captain stated. “The garrison will be bustling with activity today; the men are training in hand-to-hand and sparring. No doubt, he will wait until mealtime when he can sneak in unnoticed. Despite his head-start, he will have no choice but to wait, giving us the advantage.”

“DuBois has had the advantage throughout this entire _game_ of cat-and-mouse!” d’Artagnan exclaimed with disgust. “When that bastard has a will, he finds a way.”

“Not if I can help it!” Captain Tréville growled, prompting Peseux to ride faster.

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, LATER:**

“Surely, the men should be heading in for dinner soon,” DuBois grumbled to himself. He fidgeted on his perch across from the garrison gates where he had been watching the activity in the courtyard; he glanced up at the sky and noted the westerly position of the sun. “Soon, it will be time to make my move, and the captain and his men will be unable to stop me!” 

The fugitive continued to wait a while longer; finally, he straightened at the sound of a bell, calling the men to dinner. DuBois got up from his seat to stand at the arched entrance, watching as the courtyard slowly emptied of men. 

DuBois lingered by the gates, waiting until all the men were inside before making his move. He sneaked into the empty courtyard, making his way across the dusty ground like a cat stalking his prey. He stopped short at the doors of the infirmary, hearing the physician talking to his patients.

“I’m going to get you some soup and bread for dinner,” the doctor announced. “I’ll be right back.”

DuBois hid in the shadows, slinking into the corner to avoid being seen by the departing physician, only coming out when the coast was clear.

“That was fast, Doctor,” Athos said, without looking up. “Did you forget some. . .” he stopped short, his jaw dropping open. Instantly, his blood turned to ice.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos shouted, tossing his book aside. “What are _you_ doin’ here?”

“I’m here to collect on an old debt,” DuBois sneered. “You Musketeers owe me; I’m here to make sure you pay!”

“The hell we will!” Porthos said, jumping up from his bed as DuBois started toward Athos. “Stop, damn you!” 

DuBois swung around, catching Porthos as he pounced. The large Musketeer wrapped his arms around the fugitive’s neck to put him in a choke hold, but the man proved to be a strong opponent and wiggled loose.

Athos grabbed hold of the fugitive’s waist, pulling him off his brother, but DuBois jerked his elbow back with lightning speed, hitting the lieutenant in the ribs with a sickening crunch. 

The swift attack left the Musketeers stunned with surprise, just long enough for the madman to make his move. DuBois snatched the hidden pistol from his belt and whipped it across Porthos’ head, knocking the large man to the ground in an unconscious heap.

“Now, you are mine!” DuBois snarled. 

Athos lay slumped across the bed, cradling his ribs and barely clinging to consciousness. DuBois grabbed the lieutenant by his shirt collar and dragged him to his feet. “I’m going to make you suffer!” 

“DuBois, ssstop!” Athos rasped, unable to fight back. 

Meanwhile, Captain Tréville and his men finally arrived at the garrison, riding through the arched gate into the courtyard, and stopping near the infirmary. The group of Musketeers jumped down from their horses, alarmed at hearing the shouts from inside the sickroom.

“My God!” Tréville ran into the infirmary, stopping short at the grisly scene. He glanced down at Porthos, lying motionless and bleeding from a wound to his head. His breath hitched at seeing his lieutenant clutched by a fistful of hair and manhandled by DuBois, without the strength to fight back.

DuBois whirled around to face the approaching men, keeping Athos in front of him as a shield. At seeing his captain, the lieutenant suddenly swung his good arm up, landing his elbow on the fugitive’s chin, snapping the head back with a crunch of teeth.

DuBois instantly retaliated by yanking Athos’ broken arm behind his back, rendering him immobile; he then pushed Athos forward with incredible strength, slamming his body into the wooden frame of a bed. 

“No!” D’Artagnan screamed as he watched Athos collide with the bed, and then bonelessly collapse to the floor, unmoving.

DuBois laughed at seeing the shock and anger on the Musketeers’ faces, leaving himself uncharacteristically unguarded. 

Captain Tréville sprang from behind, rocking DuBois forward and causing him to stumble. The man quickly recovered, and with equal measure of fury and skill, he lunged at the captain, grabbing him with an arm and locking it around his throat.

Panting from exertion, DuBois held his pistol to Tréville’s head as he moved backward, away from the men. “Make one move, and I will blow his brains all over this room!”

“Put the gun down, you bastard!” Aramis shouted, aiming his pistol at the fugitive. “Put it down!”

“You are in no position to tell me what to do,” DuBois laughed. “Take a look around, I managed to incapacitate your friends yet again. I’m just getting started!” 

“DuBois, let them go!” Captain Tréville snarled. “I am the captain; your grievance is with me, not my men!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” DuBois scoffed. “No, that would be too easy. As the captain of the Musketeers, I want you to feel the loss of those dearest to you; I want you to feel the same pain that I’ve felt.”

“DuBois, we have heard enough of your worthless threats,” Aramis spat through clenched teeth. “We’ve grown weary of your childish games, and we refuse to be the subject of your twisted, deranged pursuit of vengeance. You have toyed with us for the last time. I intend to take you down and bring you to your knees!” 

“That’s funny, coming from you. . .” DuBois began, but was cut short as a sharp elbow jabbed him in his ribs, stunning him enough to release his hold on the captain.

Captain Tréville dropped to his knees, followed by a sudden shot blasting at the fugitive. Aramis held the smoking pistol in his hand, his face a mixture of rage and relief.

DuBois froze, shocked at the burst of pain exploding in his body; his jaw dropped open with surprise as he saw the blood spurting from his chest. His fingers clawed at the hole, unable to stop the blood from running over his hand.

“That was for my brothers,” Aramis growled, tossing his weapon aside. “Your reign of terror is over, DuBois. I said that I would kill you, and I _always_ keep my promises!”

DuBois grunted and fell to his knees; his body went limp as he sagged forward, dead before he hit the floor.

Aramis stepped forward, kicking the fugitive over to make sure the man was dead. He knelt down beside the unmoving man to check the pulse, but felt no movement under his fingers. Nodding, he stared into the unseeing eyes, “Game over.” 

“Ar’mis. . . help. . . don’t feel. . . so. . .” D’Artagnan put his hand to his side, then gasped as he pulled his fingers away, stained red with blood. His face paled, and he fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.


	12. Those Stubborn Musketeers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I must say, you Musketeers sure are a stubborn lot,” Doctor Laurent muttered aloud. “I declare, you are every bit as stubborn as your men."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear readers, for your patience and support of this story. I decided not to write an angsty chapter with detailed description of the boys' care because I've already done that (many times) in my previous stories. I allowed this chapter to go a different direction—one that's not so stereotypical and repetitive. For any of you who are Star Trek (OS) fans, you may recognize a part after the scene break. . . if not, I'll explain at the end. Enjoy! Thank you, as always, Mountain Cat!

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis yelled, still kneeling beside the dead body of DuBois. He jumped to his feet, but collapsed as sudden dizziness brought him to his knees. He tensed, bracing for impact with the floor. 

“I’ve got you,” Captain Tréville said, catching the medic and easing him down. “You need to rest, Aramis.” 

“Let me go,” Aramis said, weakly attempting to fight off the captain’s hold. “I need to take care of d’Artagnan!”

“You cannot take care of d’Artagnan when you’re barely clinging to consciousness,” the captain retorted, holding firmly to the struggling medic. Both men stilled, listening as a painful groan escaped d’Artagnan’s lips. 

_He felt intense pain burning in his side. His sluggish brain willed his hands to move, wanting to cradle his side and soothe away the pain, but he found his limbs heavy and uncooperative._

_Voices in his ears sounded dull, as though mired in a thick fog. He felt arms wrapping around him, pulling his body up and gently holding him. The movement shocked him as horrific pain pummeled his body, its attack brutal and relentless. He groaned, then let the darkness claim him and he felt no more._

“D’Artagnan, can you hear me?” Verday called softly, trying to rouse him without success. 

“What happened in here?” Doctor Laurent shouted, running into the infirmary. He quickly deposited the dishes of food on a table, and rushed to kneel beside the bleeding Gascon. “Was this man shot?” The physician motioned for Verday to release the patient.

“DuBois shot him at the château, but that was hours ago,” Verday answered, moving aside to give the physician room to work.

“Ah, I see; the sutures have been ripped out and the wounds reopened,” the doctor assessed, frowning as he examined the wound. “Why was this man on his feet after having had such surgery recently?”

“It’s a long story, Doctor,” Aramis replied, not wishing to delve into details.

“Hmm, it’s no wonder the stitching tore apart,” the doctor uttered in disbelief. “This thread is fraying and almost worn through.”

“I had to use thread from an old sewing basket,” Aramis admitted, blinking away the spots in his vision. “It was all that was available at the château.”

“Perhaps you can explain to me what happened at a later time,” the physician said, his curiosity piqued. “The stitch work here is exceptional, but it’s not surprising the threading did not last, considering it appears aged.”

“Doctor, how bad is it?” Captain Tréville asked, redirecting the conversation. “Will he be alright?” 

“I will have to suture the wounds again, but first I will wash and sanitize the area thoroughly before I begin,” Doctor Laurent replied. “I need the patient _carefully_ moved to a bed so I may get started,” he instructed the men crowding around them. “I also need hot water, clean towels, my medical kit and a bottle of brandy, please.” 

“Doctor, you can’t possibly tend to the patients by yourself,” Aramis said, frowning as he glanced around the room. “Athos and Porthos need attention too!”

“I must stop this bleeding first,” Doctor Laurent replied firmly. “Yes, I am going to need help with the others. Will someone quickly run to Doctor Guérin’s clinic for me, please? Ask him if he would come to help, and bring as many nurses as he can spare!”

“I’ll go,” Musketeer Peseux offered, taking his leave from the infirmary.

“You other men, help Aramis to a bed where he can rest until someone sees to him,” the doctor suggested to the Musketeers filing into the infirmary.

“Now, wait a minute,” Aramis protested, swatting away the reaching hands. “I don’t need to go lie down.” The medic gasped as the men ignored his protests, lifting him to his feet. 

“Aramis, do as the doctor says, and that’s an order,” the captain insisted. “You were unconscious after the explosion, and you have injuries that require attention.”

“Captain, I will remind you of your head injury and, judging from your earlier sluggishness, it’s likely you’ve suffered a concussion,” Aramis pointed out, as he was helped to a cot. “Your injuriesss sshould be tended to b’fore mine.” He slumped sideways, fighting to stay awake.

“No, my injuries are not that severe; I can wait,” Tréville insisted, still kneeling on the floor. The captain attempted to rise, but fell back as a rush of dizziness and nausea assaulted him. “Dammit,” he cursed, feeling absolutely dreadful.

“I must say, you Musketeers sure are a stubborn lot,” Doctor Laurent muttered aloud. “Someone assist the captain to a bed!” 

“That won’t be necessary, Doctor, I am fine,” the captain protested the order. “I have a regiment I must see to,” he said, shrugging off the men. “I will go wait in my office.”

“In here, you are _my_ patient, Captain, and you are not leaving this room. Your rank is completely irrelevant when you are in need of my care,” Doctor Laurent said, ignoring Tréville’s angry glare. “I declare, you are every bit as stubborn as your men—if not more so. Go on, help the captain to a bed!” he repeated his order to the hesitant men.

“I do not need assistance,” Captain Tréville insisted, but felt himself being lifted to his feet anyway. No sooner was he lowered onto the cot than his stomach roiled and he retched over the edge. The captain wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and lay still, willing away the nausea.

“Now you understand why I didn’t want you wandering off,” the doctor scolded. “You have suffered a head injury, and I concur with Aramis’ suspicions of a concussion. The best option for you is to lie still until someone can see to your injuries.”

“See to my men first,” Captain Tréville said with dogged resolve. He closed his eyes, concentrating on fighting the nausea churning in his stomach. 

“Get Porthos to a bed and put pressure on that bleeding head wound!” Doctor Laurent ordered, taking charge of the sickroom. “Let’s get some order in this place, and get these patients taken care of.”

“I will see to Porthos,” Verday offered. He waited as a pair of Musketeers moved the large man to a bed, and then proceeded to tend to his head wound.

“Someone get Athos off of that floor!” the doctor barked, not realizing the extent of the man’s injuries. 

“No, wait! _No one_ move Athos until a physician examines his ribs!” Aramis insisted sharply, sitting up on his cot. “Doctor, he hit the bedframe as he fell,” the medic explained, “his ribs may have been broken again, and possibly shifted from the fall.”

“Dammit, and his ribs were healing so well!” Doctor Laurent cursed angrily. He glanced over his shoulder, frowning at his patient, who lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Indeed, I do not want Athos moved until Doctor Guérin can examine him!” 

“I am here, Doctor; what can I do to help?” Doctor Guérin asked, as he and three nurses arrived in the infirmary. “Who do you need me to see to first?” the doctor asked.

“If you would see to Athos first,” Doctor Laurent replied, nodding his head toward the patient on the floor. “Please, check his ribs for new breaks and possible shifting; and also check his shoulder.” 

“What happened to him?” Doctor Guérin asked, examining the wounds.

“Earlier, he had suffered broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder,” the doctor replied succinctly. “He was healing, until this unfortunate altercation happened with. . . I am assuming that man is deceased,” he frowned. 

“Speaking of the deceased,” Captain Tréville interjected, his expression hardening. “Before anyone trips over him, someone get DuBois out of here—I don’t want to look at him again.”

A group of Musketeers started toward the fugitive when one suddenly stopped in his tracks; he paled, his brow knitted in confusion.

“W-what was the man’s name?” the Musketeer asked.

“Why, do you know something about DuBois?” Captain Tréville tensed at the man’s reaction.

“I, I don’t know for certain,” the man replied. “For some reason, the name sounds familiar. . .” his voice trailed.

“Moreau?”

“Captain, I keep extensive personal journals,” Moreau blurted, backing away from the dead body. “I need to go check my papers,” he said, running off. 

“I wonder what that was about,” Captain Tréville murmured to himself. “Carry on, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to the waiting men.

The Musketeers carried away the dead body of DuBois as everyone watched, staring with stony, repulsed glares. Their hardened faces and cold eyes conveyed deep hatred and rage toward the perpetrator who had caused such mayhem and suffering to their brothers. 

As DuBois was carried away, the men glanced at the pool of blood left behind, staining the old, wooden floor. One Musketeer tossed a towel over the blood, stepping on it with as little concern as walking over dirt; everyone else, turned their backs and resumed their work. 

The infirmary buzzed with activity, though silence fell over the sickroom like an ominous cloud. The medical teams went about their work caring for the patients, only speaking to each other in quiet whispers. An unnerving anxiety washed over the medic and the captain as they watched, worry creasing their brows as they visually followed every movement, every action.

Aramis watched as Doctor Laurent pulled up a stool next to d’Artagnan’s cot, plopping down with a heavy sigh. He poured a liberal amount of brandy over the bleeding, ragged wounds and wiped away the excess, cleaning the area with fresh, hot cloths. Rolling out his medical tools, he threaded a needle before meticulously suturing closed the gaping wounds, all the while not saying a single word.

Captain Tréville and Aramis shifted their worried gaze to Doctor Guérin as he examined Athos, still crumpled on his side on the floor. They watched as the doctor fingered over the patient’s side, checking for shifting bone; the men drew in hissing breaths as the doctor discovered a broken rib, and another, and yet another. 

“I will not move this man until I have something firm to place underneath him,” the doctor declared, breaking the heavy silence. “I detect three broken ribs and if he is not immobilized on a flat surface, those ribs may shift and puncture his lungs. A long board, or a firm stretcher, is needed before we lift him from the floor.”

“There should be a stretcher in the storage room,” Doctor Laurent said without looking up from his work. The statement prompted a few unoccupied Musketeers to go searching for the desired item.

“Ah, I also feel his shoulder has dislocated again, which I can easily fix by popping it back. . . into place,” the doctor said, as he slipped the shoulder back into the joint. 

The sudden, flaring pain of his shoulder roused Athos to consciousness. A pain-induced scream slipped from his lips, unable to contain the reaction as his shoulder burned, tormenting him. He groaned, writhing under the hands holding him steady and weighing him down. His body trembled as scorching agony flowed, as though lava ran through his veins.

“No, no, do not move, son,” Doctor Guérin ordered, “or you will hurt yourself more. I need help over here!”

Two Musketeers and a nurse rushed over, each placing strong hands on Athos’ body to keep him from moving. “Son, you must hold still or you will make things worse!”

“Let me help!” Aramis called out, slipping off of his cot and clumsily falling to his knees. He took a moment to shake off the dizziness before crawling the short distance to his brother’s side. 

“Athos, it’s me, it’s Aramis; I’m here, brother,” he soothed, brushing his fingers over Athos’ forehead before clasping his brother’s hand firmly. “Stop fighting us and let us take care of you.”

Athos stopped writhing as Aramis’ soothing touch and reassuring voice somehow penetrated his panicked mind. “Hursss. . .”

“Shhhh, I know it hurts, Athos,” Aramis whispered, “but I need you to lie still and let us help you. Just breathe in, slowly. . . and breathe out, slowly. . . that’s it. I’m right here with you, mon ami.”

“We found the stretcher, Doctor,” the returning Musketeers announced, offering up the requested equipment. 

“Oh good,” Doctor Guérin replied, giving a grateful nod to the men. “Aramis, if you would keep talking to him, I want the rest of you to slowly and gently roll him over onto the stretcher on the count of three.”

“Athos, I’m here,” Aramis said, squeezing his brother’s uninjured shoulder gently. He let out a long breath, tensing with dread but nodding that he was ready. “Just relax, and let them roll you onto your back; let them do all the work.”

“One, two. . . three,” Doctor Guérin prompted the group in slowly rolling the patient over.

Athos tensed, sucking in pained gasps through clenched teeth, as the movement caused his entire body to explode with sheer agony. The roaring in his ears was deafening, drowning out all other sounds so he could no longer hear Aramis’ soothing words of comfort.

Doctor Guérin slid the litter underneath the patient’s body, moving in sync with the gentle hands rolling Athos over until he was positioned squarely on the stretcher, flat on his back. “There, we’re done!”

Athos gasped for breath as his lungs seemed to constrict, his chest heaving, desperate for air. His eyes widened in panic; sweat beaded and streamed down his face into his beard. He blindly clawed at the edges of the litter with his good arm, grasping for something to cling to after losing his grip on Aramis’ hand.

Aramis recaptured Athos’ hand, holding it tightly as he leaned to whisper words of comfort in his brother’s ear. He moved his hand from the shoulder to behind Athos’ neck, massaging in soothing circles as he continued to whisper. “Just breathe with me,” he instructed. 

The physician gently moved Athos’ broken arm across his chest, causing the injured Musketeer to arc upward against the fresh, relentless waves of pain. He finally gave in to the beckoning darkness as his body fell limp.

“He passed out,” Aramis said, breathing a sigh of relief after checking his pulse. “Doctor, did his ribs shift?”

Doctor Guérin pressed his ear over the left lung, listening intently and watching the chest rise and fall as Athos breathed. “This side sounds good,” he said. He moved to the right side and did the same, listening and watching as the chest rose and fell evenly. “Both lungs sound intact; it appears the ribs have not punctured either lung.”

“Thank God!” Aramis exclaimed, letting his head hang in relief. The medic’s breath hitched as the doctor pulled up Athos’ shirt to reveal a deep purple bruise blooming around his side. “Damn, just when all of this was starting to heal,” he lamented.

“I have brought with me essential herbs and oils that will aid in bringing down the swelling and bruising,” Doctor Guérin informed Aramis. “I have some mullein oil, an excellent anti-inflammatory agent.”

“Mullein oil?” Aramis repeated, perking at the mention of the oil. “Wherever did you get a supply of it?”

“Oh, I have a regular supplier,” the doctor began.

“Would you mind sharing some with Doctor Laurent?” Aramis asked with hopeful enthusiasm. “The oil would perfect medicine for preventing infection in d’Artagnan’s wounds, as that is my greatest worry.”

“Absolutely,” Doctor Guérin heartedly agreed. “I don’t mind sharing with the good doctor, especially if it means helping you Musketeers return to health as quickly as possible.”

“I most definitely could use some mullein oil, considering the places this young man has apparently been,” Doctor Laurent chimed in, looking up from his stitching. 

“Anything to help fight off impending infection here. I am almost finished suturing the wounds now.”

“Doctor, Porthos’ head wound is stitched and ready for you to examine,” Nurse Celeste called out. “We can apply that salve before we bandage his head.”

“Yes, thank you, Nurse,” Doctor Guérin acknowledged with a nod. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, or Doctor Laurent may see to him.”

“The captain is also ready to be examined,” Nurse Marie announced. “He had a deep gash on the side of his head, near his temple, which I have stitched, but you will need to examine him for possible concussion and other injuries.”

“As I said, I’m almost done with d’Artagnan,” Doctor Laurent announced. “I think we are almost finished with everyone, are we not?”

“Aramis still needs tending to,” a pretty nurse said, kneeling by the medic’s side. “Now, if we can get you back over to your cot, I will take a look at those injuries.” 

A couple of nearby Musketeers lifted Aramis to his feet and scooted him over to his cot, helping him lie back against the pillows. “I’m already feeling better,” he whispered, smiling at the pretty nurse. 

“How are we doing with Aramis, Nurse Adalie?” Doctor Guérin inquired, watching as the nurse tended to the patient.

“Give me a moment, and I’ll let you know,” Adalie reported, giving the medic a cursory examination.

“She’s doing just fine,” Aramis interjected, wincing as she ran her cold fingers over his ankle. 

“Sorry to break it to you, young man,” Doctor Guérin chuckled, clearing his throat, “but Nurse Adalie is married.” 

“Figures,” Aramis replied with disappointment. “No matter, I feel better already; I had a pretty nurse help brighten this dreadful day,” he smiled.

“Thank you,” Nurse Adalie smiled. “Anyway, it appears Aramis may have suffered several bruised ribs. I do not feel any breaks or cracks, but you can check him more thoroughly to be sure. He doesn’t have any gashes on his head, but he has a large bump, indicating that he did take a blow. And he has a sprained ankle from earlier—it’s badly swollen and deeply bruised.”

“Go ahead and tend to his injuries,” Doctor Guérin said with confidence, adding, “I know you are fully capable and quite experienced enough to handle it on your own. I will follow up with a quick examination once you are finished.”

“Alright, Aramis, it looks like you’re stuck with me,” Adalie winked. “I’ll go get the salve, and then we can take care of your ribs and that ankle.”

“Take your time,” Aramis encouraged. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he said, glancing around the sickroom, sighing at the pitiful sight. 

****

**~§~**

Once their ministrations were complete, and the patients were sutured and bandaged, Doctor Guérin and his nurses left to return to their own clinic, leaving Doctor Laurent to handle the resting and recovering Musketeers on his own.

“Now, all of you will stay here in the infirmary overnight so that I can keep an eye on you,” Doctor Laurent informed the exhausted, weary men. 

“Again, that won’t be necessary,” Captain Tréville insisted, attempting to sit up on his cot. “I can rest just as well in my own room.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Doctor Laurent countered with a snort. “You are staying right where you are; this isn’t up for debate.”

“I do not need a nursemaid,” Tréville grumbled. “I am quite well and I can take care of myself. . .”

“Not with a concussion!” the doctor quickly interrupted. “Now, I’m sure that I do not need to educate you on the dangers of having a concussion, and the precautions that I _must_ take to ensure you are recovering properly. I cannot do that if you are in a separate room.” 

“I could simply leave,” Tréville threatened, testing the doctor’s patience.

“You would do no such thing!”

“You don’t know the captain,” Aramis interjected under his breath, snickering quietly as he watched his commander.

“Shh!” the doctor ordered, wanting all the talking to cease.

“And the captain says that _we’re_ stubborn,” Aramis continued, ignoring the doctor. 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Captain Tréville warned his medic.

“I said for _all_ of you to be quiet,” Doctor Laurent reiterated his order, “and that includes you, Captain.”

“I wish my brothers were awake to hear this,” Aramis mused, pulling his covers up to hide his smile.

“Shh!”

“Doctor. . .” Captain Tréville began.

“Shhhhhh!”

Doctor Laurent looked around the infirmary, glaring at the two patients staring back at him with surprise. Aramis opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly hushed.

“Shh!” the doctor scolded, glaringly. He glanced between the two stubborn patients, warning them not to speak again with a raised eyebrow and a pointed finger. Finally, the patients relented and settled against their pillows, closing their eyes to sleep.

Their eyes flew open as the doctor gloated, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Well, what do you know, I finally got the last word!”

**NEXT MORNING:**

Captain Tréville awoke to the bustling sounds in the courtyard. _The men are heading to breakfast; I should be with them. I’ve been away from the men too long as it is._

The captain pushed himself up to an elbow and looked around the sickroom, frowning. Athos slept on the cot next to him, his casted left arm in a sling, resting on his bandaged chest. He watched Athos’ chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths; even in sleep, he labored for every pained breath.

“Oh, Athos,” Captain Tréville groaned softly. He watched, transfixed as a bead of sweat rolled from the injured man’s forehead and down the temple, disappearing into the unkempt beard. “How long has it been since you’ve trimmed your beard?” he asked, the silly question slipping out before he could stop it. 

“Really, Captain?” Aramis chimed in, carefully propping himself on his elbow to face the captain. “His ribs are broken, and you’re concerned about his beard?”

“No, I. . . Aramis, dammit!” the captain growled, momentarily at a loss for words. 

“I’m happy to see you’re awake, _and_ in better spirits this morning, Captain,” Aramis chuckled. The small laugh caused his breath to hitch from a sudden stab of pain in his chest. He dropped from his elbow, plopping back onto his pillows with a gasp, “Merde.”

“Aramis? Are you alright?” Captain Tréville sat up on the bed to peer over Athos at his medic. “Aramis, should I call the doctor in?”

“No, I’m fine,” Aramis said, cautiously letting out a long breath. “That’s what I get for teasing you so early in the morning. So, how do _you_ feel today?” 

“Better, I suppose.”

“Ugh,” Aramis groaned quietly. “I feel worse than I did yesterday,” he paused, “today, I feel as though I was run over by His Majesty’s coach.”

“Yes, I believe our injuries are making themselves known after excitement from the previous days has finally worn off,” Tréville commented. He motioned to the medic’s foot, propped high on a stack of pillows, “How does your ankle feel?”

“Hurts like the devil,” Aramis replied, wincing as he tried to move it. “How’s your head?”

“Pounding headache.”

“And your shoulder?”

“Like I took a blade through it.”

“That bad, huh?”

“How is anyone s’pose to get rest. . . with you two. . . talking cont. . . cont. . .” Athos closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing as pain flared in his chest.

“Continuously,” Aramis finished for Athos. “Perhaps you should just rest and let us do the talking,” he quipped.

The joke elicited a dry huff from Athos, allowing the hint of a smile to curl his lips.

“Think you’ve done ‘nough talkin’ already,” Porthos mumbled, rousing awake on the cot next to Aramis. “Can’t get any bloody sleep with your chatter.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I believe you’ve slept long enough, mon ami.” Aramis smiled as he caught the bleary-eyed stare of his brother. “It’s about time you woke up! How are you feeling?”

“Mmnnngh. . .”

“That’s descriptive.”

“Where’sss d’rtgnnn?” Athos slurred, his eyes still closed.

“‘Mmm here,” d’Artagnan replied from the cot next to Porthos.

“Well, everyone’s awake,” Aramis commented happily, “this _is_ a good day.”

“Wait a damn minute,” Porthos interjected, suddenly alert. “Why are you, the cap’n, and d’Artagnan in here? What happ’ned to all of you?”

“Mmmm,” Aramis shifted uncomfortably at the question, the movement causing him to gasp painfully. “Long story. . .”

“Aramis?” Porthos asked, his inquiry awash in suspicion and alarm.

“I don’t believe this is the right time or place to discuss such matters,” Captain Tréville stated, his voice filled with unspoken warning. 

“Captain. . . where are the. . . other men?” Athos asked, ignoring the warning.

“You rode out with six of our brothers,” Porthos pressed, adding, “what happened out there?”

“Captain! Captain! I know why DuBois targeted the Musketeers,” the alarmed Musketeer announced, rushing into the infirmary. “I know what happened to cause DuBois to seek revenge!” 

“How do you know this, Moreau?”

“I checked my journals, Sir. I was there when it happened. . . and so was Athos!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek episode _Journey to Babel_ (S2E10) is one of my favorites. To make a long story short, Spock’s father, Ambassador Sarek, and Spock, AND Captain Kirk are all in the sickbay under Doctor McCoy’s care. Well, Spock and Kirk feel they are well enough to return to duty but McCoy insists they stay. The two senior officers protest, but relent to the good doctor after he “shushes” them into submission. The final scene is with a very-pleased McCoy who gloats, “Well, what do you know, I finally got the last word.”
> 
> **Mullein Oil:**
> 
> Mullein has a lengthy medicinal history for being a therapeutic astringent and emollient. Since ancient times, mullein has been utilized as a remedy for a multitude of ailments.
> 
> Ancient Greeks used mullein for lung diseases; other traditional uses include the treatment of bruises, burns, hemorrhoids, and gout. Mullein is good as a disinfectant treating internal & external infections; an anti-oxidant/anti-inflammatory agent that helps treat joint issues, as well as ridding the body of mucus; and it acts as a bacteria killer.
> 
> Researchers at Clemson University confirmed the antibacterial properties of mullein. In 2002, researchers reported that mullein extracts are effective against several species of disease-causing bacteria including _Staphylococcus aureus, Staphylococcus epidermidis and Escherichia coli more commonly known as E. coli._


	13. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes, there are no answers to our most pressing questions; only the Almighty knows why, and He doesn’t always deem it necessary to explain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we find out why DuBois is so hell-bent on revenge... and while it answers questions, the truth opens old scars. What happened in this story has tragically happened across the globe and across the ages; and still continues to happen today. While this chapter has a dark theme, it explains all the reasons why. Inspiration for this chapter, see the notes below. As always, Thank You, Mountain Cat.

“I checked my journals, Sir. I was there when it happened. . . and so was Athos!” 

“When what happened?” Captain Tréville demanded, wincing in pain as he sat up straight. “Please explain, Moreau.”

“Four years ago, you had assigned me to a routine mission delivering correspondence from His Majesty to the Archbishop of Reims,” Moreau began, his eyes glancing between Athos and the captain, hoping to jog their memory. “There was considerable activity with bandits raiding couriers, and you didn’t want me to travel alone, yet most of the regiment was busy providing guard duty at the palace, or were on other assignments.”

“Go on,” Captain Tréville prompted when the Musketeer hesitated.

“Athos had just returned from an assignment, and happened to be available, so he volunteered to accompany me to Reims,” Moreau said, clearing his throat. “Unfortunately, we arrived just behind Jean-Francois Geroux and his band of marauders; they had ridden out of the forest to attack the people of Reims.”

“My God!” Athos paled, sucking in a sharp breath of pain. His vision greyed as the blood roared in his ears; memories of the incident flooded his mind in waves. His breath came in short, painful bursts as his lungs seized with sudden tension.

“Mon Dieu, Athos!” Aramis yelled, bolting upright on his cot. The sudden movement caused the medic’s chest to protest, sending sharp pain through his sides. He fell back against his pillows, groaning in agony while trying to catch his breath.

“Before we continue, I want everyone to calm down and catch their breath,” Tréville instructed, gazing anxiously at his two men. “We will not discuss this if you cannot remain calm.”

“Jus’ take slow breaths,” Porthos coached from beside the medic. 

“I’m fine, Porthos,” Aramis rasped, exhaling slowly to ease the pain. “I should avoid sudden movements for a while,” he huffed, angry with himself.

“I re-remember.” Athos scrunched his eyes closed, holding his breath at the striking pain in his chest. 

“Athos? Athos, should we call the doctor in?” Captain Tréville asked, noting the pained expression with concern.

“No, the pain has passed,” he breathed with relief. “I remember coming into Reims,” he continued carefully, “to complete chaos in the streets. The bandits. . . had started to terrorize the city. . . and we rode right into it.”

“Yes, we just happened to arrive in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Moreau whispered morosely. “There were innocent people, lying dead in the street; the buggers didn’t care who they shot, but fired indiscriminately at anyone in their path.”

“The bandits may have. . . thought we were there. . . to enforce law and order,” Athos sucked in a shallow breath, “and they opened fire on us. We jumped from our horses, seeking cover. . .”

“That’s right, we had to defend ourselves, or they would have killed us!” Moreau interrupted angrily. “I remember a shot hitting the pillar where I was standing, sending shards of stone flying, narrowly missing my head. I returned fire. . .” he stopped short.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked, rising carefully to an elbow. “Athos, what happened out there?”

“There was an accident. . .” Athos hesitated.

“I didn’t mean to,” Moreau blurted, “she just appeared out of nowhere! For the life of me, I don’t where she came from!”

“Who?” Aramis asked, his eyes darting between Moreau and Athos, anxiously awaiting an answer.

“Marie. . .” Moreau started, but was unable to continue.

“Athos, what happened?” Aramis asked, almost dreading the answer.

“This will not be easy to hear, but it will explain why,” Athos said, letting out a weary sigh. The Musketeer carefully propped himself higher on the pillows, grimacing as another stab of pain tore through his chest; he drew in a sharp breath, the inhale hissing through clenched teeth.

“Athos?” Aramis leaned forward with concern.

Athos nodded as he held up a finger, silently asking for a minute as he breathed through the torment assaulting his body.

“Athos, we do not have to do this right now,” the captain interjected anxiously.

“No, I’m fine,” Athos whispered, “they deserve to kn-know the truth of what happened that day.”

“Just take your time, son,” Tréville prompted with an affirming nod.

“In the midst of heavy gunfire, a young woman ran into the street,” Athos paused, slowing his breathing. “She was running to escape the gunfire, but she ran. . . right into the path of Moreau’s shot.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed. He covered his eyes under the crook of his elbow, groaning as his temples suddenly throbbed with every heartbeat.

“The ball went into her back, and exited through her belly,” Moreau recalled, his voice trembling. “I started to run toward her, but I was pinned down at the neighboring building by another bandit; I couldn’t move without getting hit. While I occupied the bandit, Athos ran to check on her.”

“I turned her over,” Athos whispered, swallowing hard, “her belly was covered in blood. It was then that we discovered she was with child.”

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis gasped, crossing himself as he closed his eyes. “Oh God. . .”

“She asked about her baby,” Athos paused. He stared into the distance as memories tore at the long-forgotten scars, ripping them wide open and leaving his heart aching with sorrow. “I knew there was nothing we could do; it was too late. I told her that her baby was fine, and everything would be alright.”

The silence in the room was deafening. No one spoke as their minds drifted, each contemplating the incomparable burden of telling such a consolatory lie. 

“I knowingly deceived her, while holding her hand, and watched as her eyes dimmed and she breathed her last,” Athos admitted, his face shadowed with regret. He closed his eyes, swallowing back the bile rising and stinging his throat. 

“You had no other choice, Athos,” Captain Tréville whispered, eyeing his lieutenant closely. “I would have said and done the same. Her last thoughts—if only for a moment—were those of comfort and hope; you gave her that, son.”

“But what does this have to do with DuBois?” d’Artagnan asked innocently.

“After the gunfire had ceased, a very emotional, distraught man app-appeared next to us and knelt down beside the woman,” Athos explained, his hardened features glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. “The man gasped at the grisly, bloody scene. . . he proceeded to shake the woman’s shoulders as though to rouse her, but couldn’t.” 

Captain Tréville exhaled audibly, turning away as he scrubbed a hand down his face. He silently shook his head, his fingers moving to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“The man was hysterical, screaming that she was his wife, carrying his unborn child,” Athos paused, shuddering at the memory. “I asked him her name, and he replied with Marie. Marie DuBois.”

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan gasped, falling back against his pillows, stunned.

“Dammit to hell!” Porthos murmured under his breath, still shielding his eyes against the light, his head pounding. 

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis exclaimed, his face paling. “Dear God, dear God.”

“I had long ago forgotten about this tragic incident; the recollections had diminished soon after it happened. In _no way_ do I condone DuBois’ actions since then,” Tréville spat bitterly. “Moreau was _not_ at fault for what happened to Madame DuBois, and neither was Athos.” 

“Why would DuBois blame either of you anyway?” Aramis asked, sitting up higher on his pillows. “That shot could have easily come from any one of the bandits surrounding the area!”

“Did he not see that you were trying to _help_ her?” d’Artagnan asked, incredulous.

“Oi, did that bugger even ask what ‘appened?” Porthos growled, finally uncovering his face while keeping his eyes closed. 

“No,” Athos replied, glancing at Porthos. “He was too distressed to be reasonable.” 

“It was at that moment when the _gens d'armes_ appeared, and all hell broke loose,” Moreau explained, shaking his head at the memory. “Everyone was driven out of the streets, scattering in every direction; we never had the chance to explain anything to DuBois.”

“In a sense, that is true, but he had already drawn his own conclusions,” Athos pointed out. “As the shooting began anew, I intended to leave but he grabbed me, pulling me back down by my pauldron, almost ripping it from my shoulder. The look in his eyes was of intense hatred; he most certainly recognized the insignia of the King’s Musketeers.” 

“We’re a large regiment,” Porthos reminded, “how could ‘e ‘ave singled you out specifically?”

“Because I called out to Athos,” Moreau admitted, paling as his knees buckled. The man reached out to steady himself on the edge of the captain’s cot. “I shouted his name, once or twice, so DuBois learned who he was. Oh God, Athos, I’m so sorry!” 

“But you _had_ to get out of there before you were killed!” Aramis interjected with conviction. “You had to get Athos’ attention, somehow. Dammit, I would have called out his name without a second thought also—I think any of us would have.”

“He released me only when I shoved his hand away,” Athos confessed in a whisper. “I was then swept up by the panicked crowd. I left DuBois in the street, alone with his wife’s body.”

“The _gens d'armes_ enforced order and cleared out the streets in a matter of minutes, killing two of Geroux’ bandits,” Moreau stated matter-of-factly. “We never saw DuBois again—at least not until the day of the tunnel collapse.”

“Captain, you _knew_ about this incident in Reims?” Aramis asked with surprise.

“I found out about it after the fact, of course,” Captain Tréville attested, nodding. “The men couldn’t deliver His Majesty’s correspondence, and they were ordered to explain why. In my office, the details of the incident were explained and recorded by the king’s scribe.”

“We were later called to the palace when His Majesty had questions about the young woman who had died,” Athos continued, glancing at the captain. 

“What did the king say?” d’Artagnan inquired with curiosity.

“He was satisfied that it was an accident, and it couldn’t have been avoided,” Captain Tréville replied firmly. “His Majesty ruled that, while the death was unfortunate, Madame DuBois was considered collateral damage and officially listed as a casualty of the Geroux Bandits, but. . .”

“. . . but DuBois didn’t accept the ruling,” Athos continued softly, “he thought it was unjust.”

“DuBois blamed Athos for his wife’s death,” Moreau lamented, “but I was the one who shot her, _not_ Athos!”

“It doesn’t matter _who_ took that shot!” Tréville insisted sharply. “It was an accident, and no one is at fault. It’s time to stop blaming yourself, Moreau.”

“I didn’t mean to hit her,” Moreau cried, ignoring the captain’s counsel. Tears slid down the Musketeer’s cheeks, “Why did she run into the street? Oh God, why?”

“Moreau, there is no way to answer that,” Captain Tréville replied truthfully. “Sometimes, there are no answers to our most pressing questions; only the Almighty knows why, and He doesn’t always deem it necessary to explain.”

“But she was with child!” Moreau shouted, his voice breaking. “I killed an unborn child—a baby! How could I forgive myself for such a terrible act?”

“Because God doesn’t hold blame against you,” Aramis interjected softly. “If you had murdered that baby knowingly and with malice, it would be different, but you didn’t. You are not to blame for the baby’s death, nor the mother’s.”

“Moreau, I am sorry for the anguish you’re feeling,” Tréville counseled, “but if you do not let go of this guilt, it will eat away at you until nothing is left inside. In time, you will be no different than DuBois.”

“He’s right,” Aramis agreed. “DuBois was so motivated by hate and anger that only darkness reigned in his heart. I would doubt his own wife would have recognized the man he had become; he was consumed by his hunger for vengeance.”

“I am sorry for what DuBois lost that day, but it doesn’t justify murder!” d’Artagnan blurted.

“No, it doesn’t,” Aramis agreed, pausing as he scratched his head. “Why doesn’t any of this sound familiar?” he asked. 

I was wonderin’ the same thing,” Porthos chimed in, finally opening his eyes. “Where were we when all of this was goin on?”

“Well, d’Artagnan wasn’t with the regiment then,” the captain answered, “and you and Aramis were with His Majesty’s brother in Versailles, by the king’s order.”

“And shortly after the incident in Reims, we were sent to escort Their Majesty’s home from Orléans after the uprising from the river workers,” Athos reminded his brothers. “The matter with DuBois was forgotten.” 

“But DuBois didn’t forget,” Tréville corrected. “Some months later, I received a letter from him stating that we were responsible for taking everything from him, and he would be seeking recompense. However, I received no further correspondence; I had forgotten Marie DuBois and this matter long ago. . . until now.”

“Why did he take so long to retaliate when this happened four years ago?” d’Artagnan asked, confused.

“That’s a good question,” the captain replied, shaking his head. “Why now?”

“Oi, you ‘member what you were sayin’ earlier about his crime bein’ too perfect,” Porthos reminded Athos. “You thought DuBois might’ve planned this from the beginnin’.”

“Yes, I think he bungled the assassination attempt on His Majesty on purpose, knowing he would be considered a prisoner of special interest,” Athos explained, letting out a pained breath. “He also knew that if he was to be hanged, His Majesty would be in attendance, which means. . .” 

“. . . which means, he knew the Musketeers would be present also,” d’Artagnan concluded, his eyes widening.

“Exactly,” Athos concurred, nodding. “He had to have been planning his escape from the guards for quite some time, considering it was so thoroughly executed.” 

“But how could he have known the date and time of when he was being hanged?” Aramis asked, glancing between Athos and the captain. “And how did he know he would be escorted near the sewers?”

“How could he ‘ave rigged the tunnels to explode,” Porthos continued, “unless he knew ahead of time. . .”

“My God!” Captain Tréville exclaimed, blanching at the realization.

A collective gasp echoed around the room, as everyone arrived at the same conclusion.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos spat, his jaw agape. “He knew ahead of time, ‘cause he had inside help!” 

“This can’t be!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, but instantly regretted his outburst. He groaned as his side twinged with stinging pain; a sudden reminder of DuBois’ calculated and malicious deed. 

"You alright, li'l brother?" Porthos inquired.

D'Artagnan nodded quietly, waiting for the discussion to continue.

“There is no other explanation,” Athos replied, his eyes drooping. He allowed his eyes to slide closed, though he continued to struggle with thoughts of how DuBois successfully bribed the prison guards. 

“The operation would ‘ave taken extensive planning and preparation,” Porthos agreed, clenching his hands. “No way could he ‘ave done this on his own.”

“How many do you think he paid off?” Aramis asked, his jaw muscles rippling beneath his cheeks as he fought to control his anger. 

“The guards that transferred DuBois from the prison to the palace, and into our charge have to be culpable,” Tréville insisted firmly. “I will obtain the names of the guards from the warden on duty as soon as possible.”

“But who rigged the tunnels with the explosions?” Aramis asked angrily.

“It had to be someone who was experienced in handling munitions; someone who knew exactly where to place the explosives for the tunnels to have collapsed as they did,” Tréville concluded, feeling the fury burning inside him. “Whoever set those explosives was no amateur.”

“Oi, someone like ‘at wouldn’t come cheap,” Porthos growled.

“No, it wouldn’t be cheap,” Athos agreed, peeling his eyes open again. “It could explain why it took four years; he had to raise a large amount of money—enough for the job to be appealing. DuBois had to give the expert an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“So, this bribe obviously goes beyond just the prison guards, with the munitions expert included,” d’Artagnan huffed in astonishment.

“Indeed, this took extensive planning with attention to detail,” Athos said softly, visibly deflating at the magnitude of DuBois’ vengeance.

“DuBois had four years to stew, his hate growing deeper, and his anger burning hotter,” Aramis snarled, balling his fists in anger. “He had years of yearning for retribution; he became enslaved to it—vengeance was his only purpose for living. He probably felt that he had nothing to live for and nothing to lose.”

“If I hadn’t taken that shot, none of this would have happened,” Moreau lamented sadly.

“The bandit who fired at you would have taken that shot,” Athos countered, “and he would have taken the shot with deliberate intent to kill. Madame DuBois should have stayed hidden; if she had not run out into the street, she would still be alive.” 

“And _then_ none of this would ‘ave happened,” Porthos corrected.

“The woman was frightened!” Moreau countered.

“Yes, and for good reason, but she panicked, and it led to her death,” Athos explained calmly. “It was a tragic accident,” he said, allowing his eyes to slide closed again. He whispered a final, comforting thought before drifting off to sleep, “You are nnnot ressponssible, Moreau.”

“He’s right,” Captain Tréville insisted, frowning as he watched Athos sleep. “DuBois chose a path of destruction rather than learning to deal with his loss; he chose revenge over healing and living. He is dead, having followed his wife and child to the grave without purpose. The suffering at his hands was all pointless, meaningless.”

“DuBois got the ending that he deserved,” d’Artagnan spat angrily. He leaned back into the soft pillows, his eyes growing heavy. At last, he closed his eyes and embraced the tug of sleep. 

“And now, he is forever separated from his family,” Aramis interjected in a soft whisper. “Marie and her child are with God, and. . .”

“. . . and DuBois is in hell with the devil,” Porthos growled in conclusion, “right where ‘e belongs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, affluent travelers and merchants, as well as peasants and farmers, were afraid of banditry. Bands of marauders, traveling in groups of varying sizes, were incalculable and dangerous. Bandits were regarded as archenemies of the state. Punishment was public executions.
> 
> In early-seventeenth-century France, the region of Périgord was infested with bandits. The brigands found their victims mostly among rich merchants traveling through the forests. The most famous French bandit of all time was Louis Dominique Cartouche (1693–1721), a celebrated Parisian outlaw, whose name became synonymous with "highway robbers." His adventurous life is the subject of many novels, poems, and even movies.
> 
> **gens d'armes:**
> 
> The word gendarmerie comes from the Old French gens d'armes, meaning men-at-arms. During the late Medieval period, the term referred to a heavily armored cavalryman of noble birth, primarily serving in the French army. The word gained policing connotations after the French Revolution when the Maréchaussée was renamed the Gendarmerie.
> 
> I drew inspiration for what happened to Marie DuBois from **Mary Virginia "Jennie" Wade** (May 21, 1843 – July 3, 1863) who was killed in the Battle of Gettysburg at the age of 20. She was the only direct civilian casualty of the battle when she was killed by a stray bullet.
> 
> About 8:00 a.m. on July 3, Wade was kneading dough for bread when a Minié ball traveled through both the kitchen door and parlor door of her sister's house and hit her. It pierced her left shoulder blade, went through her heart, and ended up in her corset. She was killed instantly. More than 150 bullets hit the house during the fighting. Authors have attributed the fatal shot as coming from an unknown Confederate sharpshooter.
> 
> In 1882, the United States Senate voted to grant Jennie's mother a pension, citing that her daughter had been killed serving the Union cause – baking bread for the soldiers. Her sister's house is a common tourist attraction in Gettysburg, and is known today as "the Jennie Wade House."


	14. A Reach Beyond the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It appears DuBois’ vengeance reaches even beyond the grave,” Tréville fumed, anger shadowing his chiseled features. “Now he has claimed Javon, but I’ll be _damned_ if I’m going to let him have Athos!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with my story! I apologize for the long delay, but I was waiting for FFNET to get their act together and fix their annoying glitch problem so I could keep the two sites in sync. Now that it's fixed, I can finish up this story. We are winding down, my friends... but it's not over yet. The captain has some investigating to do; and it appears that DuBois isn't finished yet - it seems he has reached beyond the grave to continue his deadly deeds! The next installment should be up after the weekend. Thanks for reading, and thank you to Mountain Cat for catching my mistakes.

**TWO DAYS LATER, INFIRMARY:**

Captain Tréville walked into the infirmary, pausing to listen to the teasing banter of his men. A smile curled his lips, a soft chuckle escaping as he watched Porthos toss his head back and laugh heartedly at Aramis’ witty joke.

“Captain, how long have you been standing there?” Aramis asked after noticing Tréville watching them. “Pull up a chair and stay a while.” 

“No, I came to inform you that I have been summoned to the palace by His Majesty,” Captain Tréville stated, approaching the men. “I should be back around the midday meal, at the latest.” 

“Why have you been summoned?” Athos asked, noting the serious expression on his captain’s face. “Is there something wrong?”

“His Majesty wants to know why his prisoner is not being returned to him alive, as per his orders,” the captain sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

“Captain, it was either kill DuBois, or he was going to kill you,” Aramis said, dropping his feet from Athos’ cot to the floor. The medic turned to face the captain, his dark eyes burning with steadfast resolve. “I am not sorry for killing that bastard; I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“Yes, Aramis, I know that,” Tréville breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But His Majesty is disappointed that he no longer has a hanging to attend.”

“Rubbish, if the king wants a hangin’ so much, how ‘bout we hand ‘im those traitorous prison guards,” Porthos growled. “Just give me the word, I’ll deliver ‘em myself!” 

“One matter at a time, Porthos,” the captain advised, holding up a calming hand. “I still have to call on the warden, but that will have to wait. First, I must report to His Majesty at the palace.”

“His Majesty shouldn’t be upset,” Athos interjected, his eyebrow raised in question. “He knows what the regiment has been through in recent days, does he not?” 

“Yes, he is aware,” the captain replied. “But, the king believes it’s time for the regiment to get back to work.” Tréville frowned as he glanced around the sick room. “We have new recruits waiting to be trained, yet my best men are not available.”

“Captain, I would gladly volunteer myself, if it would mean getting out of this place,” Athos drawled. “I am rather tired of lying in bed, doing nothing.”

“Sorry, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere, let alone train anyone, mon cher,” Aramis said, giving a sympathetic smile.

“Right now, I want you to concentrate on getting well, Athos,” Captain Tréville instructed. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and you must allow your body time to recuperate; the same goes for all of you. You all know how the king is, and he grows more impatient with each passing day.” 

“Captain, most of the men have been through _an ordeal_ with this DuBois matter.” Aramis slowly rose from his chair, bristling at the thought of the king’s impatience. “The regiment isn’t ready to return to business as usual—not yet. We still have three brothers in Ville d’Avray who are fighting for their lives!”

“I know that, Aramis!” Tréville replied sharply. “But as captain of this regiment, I have to abide by the king’s wishes. His Majesty has been very gracious in allowing us time to work through this difficulty, but he wants his Musketeers back at work.”

“Of course, he does,” Aramis muttered, pushing his chair out of the way. 

“Aramis, don’t. . .” Porthos warned in a low voice.

“I will be discussing only the most pressing matters with His Majesty,” the captain stated firmly. “However, I too am ready to get this regiment back on its feet again. I want to put this damned ordeal with DuBois behind us; I want us to pick up the pieces and move forward.”

“But, Captain. . .”

“No, Aramis,” Captain Tréville interrupted, holding a hand up to quiet the medic. “Hold your objections until I return; there is little sense in arguing about it right now. I’ll see what I can do at the palace.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Aramis replied in agreement. 

“I’ll return in a few hours,” the captain said. He glanced around ruefully at his downcast men, who had been in good spirits and laughing only moments ago. “I’ll have Serge bring you some breakfast.” 

“Well, he’s certainly uptight,” d’Artagnan sighed as he watched the captain leave. “I wouldn’t want to be in his place.” The Gascon stared at the empty doorway, before returning his gaze to his brothers. “Let’s hope His Majesty is in a good mood, for a change.”

“I should be with the captain,” Aramis stated regretfully. “I’m the one who shot DuBois; the least I could do is explain what happened.”

“If the captain wanted you to accompany him, he would have asked,” Athos calmly pointed out. “On that note, the captain’s right; it’s past time the garrison returned to its daily routine.”

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Aramis rushed to Athos’ side as he began to rise from his cot. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I will heal faster in my room than in here.” Athos winced through gritted teeth, ignoring the objections from the medic. “I cannot get a moment’s peace with the constant hovering of Doctor Laurent or his assistant,” he said, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“You are not going anywhere!” Aramis insisted, pressing his hands down on Athos’ shoulders. “You are in no condition to simply walk out of here.”

“My ribs and shoulder are injured,” Athos drawled, “not my legs.”

“Irrelevant point. I will add,” Aramis countered, protesting the dogged determination of his brother, “that your ribs are still fragile; you shouldn’t risk moving around.”

“When I am in my own bed, I will no longer move around,” Athos persisted, his words tinged with irritation. He swung a leg over the edge, but the movement caused jolting pain to sear through his side, toppling him over.

“Athos!” Aramis jumped forward, catching Athos by his good arm. He hissed in pain at the hitch in his own chest, causing him to crumple onto the bed.

“Alright, that’s it!” Doctor Laurent scolded as he returned to find his patients in a tangled pile. “Do not think that I won’t have you men restrained to your cots if you cannot follow my orders! I told you to rest, which means you cannot get up and walk out of here on a whim.”

“Michel, go help Aramis back to his own cot,” the doctor ordered his assistant sharply.

“I can walk on my own,” Aramis muttered, as he was helped back to his own bed. “I’m not an invalid!”

“No, but you keep forgettin’ about those sudden movements,” Porthos reminded him, shaking his head. He watched as Aramis lay back against the pillows, wincing and gritting his teeth. “Now, let ‘at be a lesson to ya.”

“Ah, shut up,” Aramis mumbled under his breath, eliciting a smile from the big Musketeer.

“Now, let’s get you situated—again,” Doctor Laurent grumbled, as he guided Athos to a comfortable position. The doctor frowned at the lieutenant, whose face was now creased with pain and beaded with sweat. “Indeed, let that be a lesson to you too, young man!”

“Mmmmgh,” Athos replied, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain flaring through his side. 

“I’ll get a pain draught prepared,” the doctor said, his tone softening. “You can have it with some hot tea.”

“I’ll go fetch the hot water,” Serge offered, having just arrived in the infirmary with a tray of food. “Stubborn Musketeers!” he grumbled, setting the tray down and leaving to fetch the water.

**MEANWHILE, LOUVRE PALACE:**

“You wanted to see me, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville announced, bowing low as he entered into the king’s presence. He approached the oval table situated in the sparsely decorated, yet elegant, circular room where the king was busily working on his latest model ship.

“Yes, yes, come in!” King Louis waved the captain forward, wearing a broad smile. “What do you think of my newest ship, Captain?” the king asked, proudly showing off his exquisite, tri-masted ship. “This is a Spanish Galeón; she has three decks, each side armed with cannon. The number of cannon varies from ship to ship, but the larger vessels can hold hundreds.” 

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville replied, tipping his head respectfully. “Your gunship is quite impressive, Sire, but I am sure you didn’t summon me here to show me your latest model ship.”

“Of course not, Captain,” the king said, distractedly. He placed a Spanish flag on the first mast. “I called you here so we could discuss why my prisoner was killed rather than brought to me alive, as ordered.”

“Your Majesty, DuBois came to the garrison with intent to hurt or kill Athos, in particular, but also Porthos. The prisoner was killed only out of necessity,” Captain Tréville replied, shifting on his feet uncomfortably. 

“Please explain, Captain.”

“Your Majesty, DuBois had a gun to my head,” the captain stated bluntly. 

“Oh, I see,” the king replied absently, placing another flag on the second mast.

“I am alive today only because of the quick-thinking actions of your well-trained men, Sire.” 

“Who killed my prisoner?”

“Um, Aramis did, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, well, I suppose he is due a commendation then,” the king said, waving his hand with disinterest. “Next item of business, the docket had mentioned a Château de Montois?”

Captain Tréville proceeded to explain the strange details of the château, from the discovery of the murder scene and weapon to the bastard son demanding to be legitimized.

“Oh, I _do_ love a good mystery,” the king said, smiling from ear to ear. “Please, tell me more!”

“We learned the château was owned by Michel Louis du Vaires, Marquis de Montois, who was murdered by his bastard son. The son later claimed his father’s title and took over affairs at the château—until his own untimely death.”

“Who is running the estate now?”

“That’s just it,” the captain expressed, recognizing the opportunity opening before him. “ _No_ one is running the estate, Your Majesty. The marquis had no living heirs, so everything is falling into ruin.”

“Into ruin!” the king repeated with surprise. “Why would they allow such misfortune?”

“The people of Ville d’Avray believe the house is. . .”

“The house is what, Captain?”

“Well. . . the people believe. . . the spirit of the marquis still lingers. . .” 

“You mean, the house is haunted?” King Louis interrupted, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “A real ghost story?” he asked, his eyes wide. “How thrilling!”

“Your Majesty, the people are afraid.” Tréville ignored the king’s enthusiasm for the supernatural. “The people believe the property is cursed.”

“Pish posh,” the king said distractedly. “Believing the property is cursed is absurd! Why would they believe such a thing?”

“Besides of the condition of the estate, the people believe the marquis cannot rest,” the captain explained. “The graves of the marquis, his wife, and their stillborn son are covered in weeds and brambles, and the headstones are disintegrated. Marquis de Montois was a fair and respectable lord; he should be remembered as such, and treated with the honor due him. Your Majesty, the marquis deserves better than what he has received.”

“Yes, indeed, I would agree,” the king said, his tone softening. “What would you suggest, Captain?”

Captain Tréville relayed the request of the people to tear down the château and restore the land, and also replace the headstones for the marquis and his family. 

“That is quite an impressive request, Captain.”

“Agreed, but it would be a fitting tribute to the Marquis de Montois, as a good lord and servant of the crown,” Tréville replied, crossing his arms behind his back. “You could consider it a gift to the village from Your Majesty; for that gift, I am certain, you would have their undying devotion.” 

“Why yes, when you put it that way,” Louis declared with a toothy smile, “I like it! Yes, it shall be done! Anything else?”

“Yes,” Tréville answered with a heavy sigh. “I must return to Ville d’Avray to bring home the three men who were badly injured in the explosion; I promised the physician and the homeowner they would be well-compensated for tending to Your Majesty’s men.”

“You are lucky that I am in a good mood today, Captain.” King Louis sat back in the chair to admire his ship, his smile lighting up his face. “I will have Steward Aubert prepare payment for each of the gentleman who tended to my Musketeers.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Please give my regards to the injured men.” King Louis sat forward in his chair, beginning his work once again. “Now, I would like to finish working on my ship. If you have nothing further, you are dismissed.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Tréville bowed respectfully at the waist, then followed the steward to his office.

“You couldn’t have visited His Majesty on a better day,” Steward Aubert said, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s been in a very charitable mood since his model ship arrived; he’s worked on nothing else all day.”

“Considering everything my men have been through these last couple of weeks, His Majesty’s charity is most appreciated and quite welcome.”

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, INFIRMARY:**

“If you’re not too busy, why don’t you sit down and tell us about your visit with His Majesty,” Aramis said, yawning after waking up from a long nap. “Did you get everything you requested, Captain?” 

“I did,” Captain Tréville replied, watching Athos with some unease as he slept. “The king just received a new model ship,” the captain went on, “and was in a most generous mood; the gentlemen in Ville d’Avray should be pleased.”

“When are you going back to the village?” d’Artagnan asked, pulling himself higher on the pillows.

“I will have to go soon,” Tréville replied, glancing briefly at the Gascon before turning again worriedly toward Athos. _Why hasn’t he woken up?_ “I am somewhat surprised—disappointed, rather—that I haven’t heard anything in regard to the men’s condition. I can only hope they are recovering.” 

“You could send a rider with a letter to the physician,” Aramis suggested. The medic’s eyes darted to Athos after noticing the captain intently watching the injured man, his brow furrowed with concern. “Captain, what is it?”

“How long has it been since Doctor Laurent checked on Athos?” Tréville asked, moving closer to get a better look. He reached down to place his palm on Athos’ brow, “My God, he’s burning with fever!”

“What?” Aramis blurted, sitting up on his cot; he stared at the sleeping lieutenant with his mouth agape. “We all fell asleep after breakfast. . .”

“Has he woken at all since this morning?” Captain Tréville asked.

“No, he’s been sleeping ever since the doctor gave him the pain draught, just after you left for the palace. He didn’t even eat the breakfast Serge brought,” Aramis replied. “Doctor Laurent went to buy more herbs and collect supplies; he should be back soon.” 

“Captain!” shouted a Musketeer at the infirmary doorway. “A courier just delivered this message from a Doctor Renauld in Ville d’Avray.”

“Yes, bring it here,” the captain instructed. He unsealed the parchment and began reading, his eyes quickly darting over the words. His eyes suddenly grew wide, his features fell as his jaw dropped open. “Damn!” he murmured, crumpling the letter in his hand.

“Captain?” Aramis called out anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Doctor Renauld has informed me,” he sighed heavily, “that Javon did not make it. He died from his wounds just this morning.”

“Oh no!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, sliding his hand through his unruly hair.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos cursed.

“What else are you not telling us, Captain?” Aramis asked, sensing there was more to the letter.

“The doctor said there was something he must discuss with me, but will not do so through a letter,” Tréville replied, uncurling the letter. “He wants me to come to the village immediately.”

“Merde, this doesn’t sound good,” Aramis replied apprehensively. “Captain, do you think something is wrong with the other two?”

“I don’t know, but I better go find out what the doctor has to say.” Captain Tréville hesitated, his attention returning to his fevered lieutenant. “I want Doctor Laurent to see to Athos _immediately_ upon his return, am I clear?” 

“Yes, Sir!” the men echoed vehemently, each worried for their brother.

“Dammit, this trip couldn’t be more ill-timed,” the captain muttered to himself. “Getting sick is the _last_ thing Athos needed!”

“Captain, I will see what I can do for him until the doctor returns,” Aramis offered, rising slowly from his cot. “You go take care of business in Ville d’Avray—and try not to worry about Athos.”

“Take good care of him, Aramis; I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Tréville walked toward the door but looked back, pausing as his eyes filled with regret. “I cannot lose any more of my men.”

“And you won’t, Sir,” Aramis promised without skipping a beat. The medic clenched his fists, determined to fight for Athos’ life, but deep inside, the very thought of such a struggle filled his heart with dread.

“It appears DuBois’ vengeance reaches even beyond the grave,” Tréville fumed, anger shadowing his chiseled features. “Now he has claimed Javon, but I’ll be _damned_ if I’m going to let him have Athos!” 

“He can have Athos over my dead body!” Porthos growled, fisting his blanket in rage.

“He will not take Athos,” d’Artagnan swore, adding, “not if we have anything to do with it!”

“DuBois is finished taking our brothers away from us,” Aramis spat angrily. “That bastard is dead. His twisted ploys with the living are over; I terminated his quest for vengeance when I shot him. He may suffer in the depths of Hell for all eternity, but he’ll never have Athos as company. I swear this on my life!”

TBC


	15. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, he was finally bringing home all the men with whom he had ridden out from Paris, but at such great cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery is starting to unravel, and the regimental sleuth, Captain Tréville, is only beginning to uncover the secrets... more to come in the next chapter. Meanwhile, Athos is in trouble; sorry to leave you hanging like I did... but I promise we'll get back to him in the next chapter. Thank you to Mountain Cat, as always!

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, INFIRMARY:**

Athos was no stranger to fighting; he was no novice at overcoming obstacles.

When his path in life unexpectedly changed, it sent him over the edge, spiraling downward. . . 

_It was my duty to uphold the law. My duty to condemn the woman I loved. I condemned my wife to die!_

_I am no longer Olivier, Comte de la Fère. I am Athos, of the King’s Musketeers._

_I wish to drown my misery in drink until I no longer remember the pain, the guilt, the love._

_My duty as a Musketeer is to the captain; he depends on me. I cannot—I will not—let him down._

_I cannot let my brothers down._

_My brothers. . .!_

Athos gasped, gulping air into his lungs yet struggling to breathe. Gentle hands were at his face, cupping his chin; a voice ordered him to relax and take slow, easy breaths.

“Breathe, Athos!” 

Pain mingled with nausea. _Damn, I’m going to be sick!_ Athos squeezed his eyes shut against the roiling in his belly; he swallowed hard, feeling the sting of bile rising in his throat.

“Athos! Athos!” a faraway voice called.

Blood pounded in his ears, causing the voice to fade in and out. A shuddering groan escaped his lips, the pain overwhelming his senses. He sucked in another breath, though it didn’t satisfy; his lungs felt constricted, shrinking inside his chest. 

“Hard. . . to b-breathe!” Athos croaked, his lungs feeling like lead.

“Athos, listen to my voice,” Aramis called. “Take in a slow breath. . . and then let it go, mon cher.”

Breathing in through his nose, Athos struggled to control the panic swelling in his mind. He exhaled slowly, only to have his breath catch as a stabbing pain cut through his side, causing his body to arc upward, his muscles suddenly tightening in shock. 

“No! Athos. . . try to relax. . . Athos! Can you hear me?”

The ringing in his ears drowned out the panicked voice. The light faded as he closed his eyes and gave in to the beckoning darkness. His strength was sapped; he was tired of fighting.

Athos’ body went lax as he spiraled into the abyss, hurtling through the darkness until he felt. . . nothing.

“Athos!”

“Doctor, hurry!” Aramis called, as Doctor Laurent rushed to the patient’s bedside. 

“Stay with me, Athos,” the doctor called, though his plea fell on unhearing ears. 

 

**LATER, VILLE D’AVRAY:**

“Doctor Renauld, thank you so much for your letter,” Captain Tréville said, holding out his hand to the physician. “I came as quickly as I could, though I must admit, you have me quite concerned.”

“Please, come into my office,” Doctor Renauld invited, sweeping his hand toward the door. “First, let me offer you my condolences on the loss of your Musketeer, Javon.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Tréville replied gratefully. The captain sighed, inwardly regretting his harsh words spoken to the Musketeer in the darkness outside the château. _Javon, I'm putting you on report once we return to the garrison._

“Captain, are you alright?” Doctor Renauld asked, startling his guest. “I apologize, you appeared to be a world away.”

“I told Javon I was putting him on report,” Tréville whispered with regret. “My last words spoken to him were in anger.”

“I am sorry, but please don’t be too harsh on yourself, Captain,” the doctor voiced with understanding. “There is no way you could have known this would happen.” 

“We were all on edge that night in the forest,” Tréville said, his voice thick with memories. “The air itself weighed heavily with tension. I lost my temper.”

“Captain, your regiment has been through unspeakable horrors,” Doctor Renauld sympathized, adding, “I do not blame you for being on edge that night.”

“This experience has had me perpetually on edge,” the captain huffed miserably.

“Well, today I am afraid that I won’t be helping your mood any,” the doctor sighed, pulling a document out from his desk drawer. “For the official report of death, may I ask Javon’s first name?” 

“Adrien,” Tréville replied softly. “His name was Adrien Javon.”

“Captain, the reason I asked you here today was Javon’s cause of death,” Renauld stated with reluctance, setting aside the completed document. “After the explosion in the barn, I had assumed the fatal injury was caused by the blast but this was not the case.”

“What do mean, Doctor?” Tréville asked, suddenly alarmed. “If it wasn’t the blast, then what did kill him?”

“This is most perplexing, Captain, but given the stories that I’ve heard from your other two men, it makes perfect sense,” the doctor replied cryptically.

“What makes perfect sense?”

“Javon was indeed injured in the blast, but that’s not what killed him,” Renauld paused, “he was shot in the chest. I didn’t catch it initially, but while tending to his extensive injuries, I discovered the hole in his chest. I performed surgery on him and retrieved the ball; however, his wounds were too severe and, ultimately, I couldn’t save him.”

“My God, my God,” Tréville gasped in surprise. “DuBois shot Javon to make _sure_ he died in that explosion,” he murmured under his breath.

“That is also my conclusion,” Renauld admitted, nodding his head. “I heard that this _DuBois_ was the cause of all the mayhem in and around the château; I also heard that he killed your other Musketeer, Colbert.”

“Colbert,” the captain repeated the young man’s name in a sad whisper. “Before I return to Paris, I will collect his remains; he will be buried in our regimental cemetery. Colbert will be buried with the honor due him.”

“Javon was one of your men too,” the doctor noted, his eyebrows raised in question. “Will he not get the same remembrance?”

“Doctor, I would like to see my other men,” Captain Tréville said, standing abruptly. “Are they well enough for me to speak with them?”

“Yes, I do believe they are well enough, though they may be asleep at the moment.”

“If they are sleeping, then I will have to wake them,” the captain said, following behind the doctor. “What I have to speak to them about cannot wait.”

“The men are in the same room,” Renauld said, opening the door to peek inside. “I will leave you to speak with them privately. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Tréville said, stepping inside the room. He took a deep breath, “It’s time to get to the bottom of this,” he whispered to himself, shutting the door behind him.

~§~

“Doctor, is there someone who can fetch Monsieur Pettigrew for me?” the captain asked, obviously anxious to leave. “I would appreciate the use of his wagon to transport my two injured men home to the garrison, as well as Javon’s and Colbert’s bodies.”

“I would prefer that Fernier and Lémieux stayed here longer to recuperate before traveling,” the doctor sighed. “However, I understand you have an exceptional infirmary with a highly respected physician on staff, and for those reasons _only,_ I will release the men into your care, Captain.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I will send my assistants to ask Monsieur Pettigrew to fetch the wagon; they will ensure the two coffins are onboard and covered before you come out. We can get the patients prepared for travel while waiting for the wagon.”

~§~

Captain Tréville stood solemnly beside his horse, watching as the stretchers bearing his injured men were loaded onto the wagon. The two coffins, containing the remains of his deceased men, were covered with blankets and discretely pushed into the back corner.

“Your men are ready when you are,” Monsieur Pettigrew said.

“Thank you,” Captain Tréville let out a heavy sigh. “Doctor Renauld and Monsieur Pettigrew, I had promised that you would be well compensated by His Majesty for tending to his men,” he said, handing each man a coin purse. “With this payment, you have my deepest gratitude; and you have the sincerest appreciation of His Majesty for all that you have done for his Musketeers.”

“Captain, I am deeply humbled,” Monsieur Pettigrew said, accepting the purse. “I did not expect payment when I offered my assistance; I simply felt compelled to lend a helping hand.”

“Nor did I do it for compensation, Captain,” Doctor Renauld agreed.

“I know that, but I am grateful to you both, and so is the king,” Captain Tréville replied. “Monsieur Pettigrew, you helped save the lives of my injured men back at the garrison as well; without your wagon, I couldn’t have made it back to Paris so quickly.”

“I am thankful that I could be of assistance to you and your men, Captain,” Monsieur Pettigrew said, tipping his head respectfully.

“Doctor Renauld, thank you for tending to my men,” Tréville said, clearing his throat of the rising emotion. “If not for your prompt assistance and medical expertise, I would be returning to Paris with four coffins, rather than two. I am forever indebted to you.”

“Nonsense, Captain,” Doctor Renauld waved off the praise. “I consider it a true honor to have served His Majesty by tending to his men. It has also been my highest privilege to lend assistance to the Captain of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Thank you both,” Captain Tréville said, dipping his head in appreciation. “Oh, I almost forgot!” he snapped his fingers. “I spoke to His Majesty in regard to the Château de Montois and the grave sites of the marquis and his family; the king has agreed to all that you have requested.”

“This is marvelous news!” Monsieur Pettigrew exclaimed. “Perhaps this forest and our beloved village will finally have its peace.”

“Yes, and perhaps the marquis will finally have _his_ peace,” Tréville added, glancing briefly in the direction of the dilapidated château. “Goodbye, Doctor, it has been an honor,” he said, shaking the physician’s hand, then clapping him warmly on the shoulder. 

Captain Tréville mounted his horse, sighing as he took in the sight of the small village. He shook his head at the burned ruins of the barn, the memories of the explosion still exceptionally vivid in his mind. The captain turned his horse away and followed as Monsieur Pettigrew put the wagon into motion.

The captain lifted his hat in farewell to the doctor; he smiled at the people of the village waving their goodbyes as he rode by. As the picturesque village was left behind, Tréville let out a sorrowful sigh, a dozen emotions stabbing at his heart, while riding beside the wagon bearing his four men. 

How long ago did he and his men depart Paris, racing down the road in pursuit of the deadly fugitive, DuBois? Captain Tréville could no longer remember; the days seemed to run together in a blur. By order of the king, he had ridden west with Aramis, d’Artagnan, and six of his best men riding by his side. If only he had known it would end in such catastrophe!

Tréville shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories. The constant rolls of thunder and the single gunshot on the stairs resounded in his mind’s ear; the dreadful noises were just as clear in his memory as they were on that horrible night. 

“The lightning,” the captain huffed, talking aloud to himself. “I could have lost d’Artagnan that night if not for the lightning.” 

A shudder coursed through his body as he remembered the flash of lightning illuminating the Gascon’s motionless body at the bottom of the stairs. He closed his eyes and sighed, knowing it was only the beginning of the traumatic injuries that followed.

His mind floated back to the final chase by the pond on the morning of the explosion. “My God, we could have all been killed!”

_DuBois led my men into that barn on purpose, but by God’s grace, Aramis and I were delayed. If not for being obstructed by the farm equipment, we would have been in the middle of that explosion too, instead of on the edge._ “It’s a wonder any of us survived to leave this damned place,” he murmured in amazement. 

At last, he was finally bringing home all the men with whom he had ridden out from Paris, but at such great cost. Two of his men were still badly injured; two others were lying dead, their bodies cold in wooden boxes—their lives viciously snuffed out by a raging madman. 

The captain closed his eyes again, his heart aching as he remembered the first stormy night in the forest, chasing after DuBois; it had been his suggestion to return to the rocks, assuming they would be safe there. 

_Perhaps, if we hadn’t returned to the rocks, Colbert would still be alive. I was his captain; it was my duty to keep him alive. I couldn’t protect Colbert. I failed at my duty!_

“I failed all of my men that night. I especially failed you, Colbert,” Captain Tréville softly lamented, “and as your captain, I am deeply sorry.” 

_But what about Javon?_

“Javon, if I find out that you were involved with DuBois,” Tréville threatened with a low growl. _Bloody hell, I can’t think about this right now._ He quickly pushed aside the anger, allowing his thoughts to wander back instead to the garrison and his sick lieutenant. 

“You _must_ get well, Athos,” the captain whispered to himself. “I couldn’t bear to lose another life to that bastard’s scheming.” Tréville slowed his horse, deciding to ride behind the wagon where he could keep an eye on his injured men.

“I’ve lost too much in DuBois’ sick game of cat-and-mouse,” Tréville growled, clenching his fists around the reins. “I am through playing games. I _will_ find out who helped DuBois hurt my men, and I will not stop searching until I uncover the truth.” 

Captain Tréville sighed with relief as the wagon drew near to Paris, the wheels settling over the well-worn road heading into the city. On the late afternoon breeze, he heard the familiar tolling of the bells from Notre-Dame Cathedral. 

“Are we almost home, Captain?” Lémieux asked, raising his head to meet his captain’s eyes.

“Yes, we’re almost home, boys,” Tréville replied.

“How do we make sense of this, Captain?” Lémieux asked sadly. “Looking back, I wonder if we could have. . .” 

“It doesn’t matter, Lémieux,” Captain Tréville interrupted, abruptly ending the doubting questions. “We will not question ourselves anymore.”

“But, Captain. . .” 

“No, from this point on, we’re not looking back; we are _only_ looking forward,” Captain Tréville promised his men. “We will look forward to healing and regrouping as a regiment. We are finished being victims; DuBois’ reign of terror is over.”

Captain Tréville took in a deep breath, nodding as the wagon rolled through the city gate, a steely resolve gripping at his heart.

“We will overcome this tragedy, and we will come out of this a better, stronger regiment. I swear as your captain, we will _all_ survive this, and we will survive it together!” 

TBC


	16. The Truth Revealed, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville had begun his quest in search of answers, but learning the truth has been a stab to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it happened again, dear readers. This chapter just had a mind of its own and kept flowing with more muse than intended. Rather than cramming too much into one chapter, I decided to split this one into two parts. In this chapter, the truth is FINALLY uncovered; part II has Tréville revealing that dreaded truth to His Majesty.
> 
> Thank you to Mountain Cat!

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, INFIRMARY:**

No one dared to breathe.

The doctor pressed his ear to Athos’ chest as the frightened men watched and waited, their hearts pounding.

“He’s breathing!” Doctor Laurent announced, lifting his head and nodding. The physician pressed his ear once again against Athos’ chest, listening while trying to ignore the cries of relief from the men. 

“Thank God!” Aramis uttered gratefully. He crossed himself, quietly whispering a prayer of thanks under his breath.

“Bloody hell, that was too damn close!” Porthos grumbled, letting his head hang in relief.

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan whispered, falling back against his pillows. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the sting of moisture building.

“Both lungs are still drawing breath, but. . .” the doctor’s voice trailed off as he listened.

The doctor’s unspoken words hung in the air, effectively ending the celebratory mood the men had felt just seconds before. Laurent creased his brow, knitting his eyebrows together in worry as he listened to the rasping sounds underneath his ear.

Aramis noticed the doctor’s unstated anxiety and straightened on his cot, alarmed. “Doctor, what’s wrong?”

“I believe a rib may have punctured his lung,” the doctor replied, lifting his head up abruptly. “Oh no, he’s coming around!”

The medic quickly got up from his cot, ignoring the pain twitching in his side as he tried to calm the rousing patient. “Athos, just lie still and try not to move,” Aramis soothed, whispering softly in his brother’s ear. “I’m here, but you need to calm down so you don’t hurt yourself. I’ve got you, mon cher.” 

Athos felt strangely light, as though he were floating, drifting just above the voices and the desperate hands reaching for him.

Hands pressed down on his shoulders, jolting him into awareness; the pressure on his sore shoulder forced a soft moan from his lips. Athos forced his eyes open, but they felt so heavy. His body ached with fever and torment. He tried to remember, but mere scraps of images taunted his memory before they morphed into dust and floated away.

The swordsman felt himself sinking into the disorienting darkness. He gulped desperate breaths, trying to fill his parched lungs, but it only left him longing for more.

Fever coursed through his veins, as though on fire; every muscle, every joint, every hair on his body burned. His head was spinning, his stomach churned. A nauseous cough escaped his lips as he felt the bile rising.

“Sssickkk. . .”

“Turn his head, quick!”

The room tilted nauseously as Athos’ retched over the side, the liquid spattering on the floor, dotting the tops of boots. Involuntary tears slipped from his eyes, mixing with his sweat-drenched cheeks; the sting burned his throat, making him gasp and cough. “God. . .”

“Shhh, I’ve got you, brother,” Aramis soothed, swabbing Athos’ brow with a cool cloth. Athos flinched at the touch, though his burning skin welcomed the cool relief. 

A strong voice called, prodding his consciousness to the edge of awareness; he felt a hand grasping his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. He tried to open his eyes, but found the effort too taxing.

“Come on, open your eyes for me,” Aramis ordered, “and keep them open. Listen to my voice, Athos.”

The swordsman opened his eyes, trying to focus on the dark orbs blurring, swimming before his own. “C-can’t ssstay ‘wake,” Athos slurred. He closed his eyes, gasping as another wave of pain shuddered through his chest, stealing his breath away.

Athos heard the pleas to hold on, but his strength was waning. He welcomed the pull of unconsciousness, drifting into the abyss once again.

“He’s lost consciousness,” Doctor Laurent declared, letting out a disappointed sigh. “I am rather surprised that he stirred at all, even for a short while; I take that as a good sign.”

“How much more suffering does Athos have to endure?” d’Artagnan asked aloud, though not expecting an answer. “Surely, his body cannot take any more injury!”

“He sure as hell can’t!” Porthos agreed, emitting a low growl.

“I must find the location of this lung injury,” the doctor asserted, pressing his ear once more to Athos’ chest. “I can hear rasping sounds on his left side. . .” 

“Merde,” Aramis cursed softly to himself.

“Aramis, help me get these bandages off,” Doctor Laurent instructed, hastily unwrapping the cloth. “I’ll be able to hear his breathing more clearly without this damned bandage in the way.”

“Are you certain he has further injury to his lung?” Aramis asked anxiously. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Doctor Laurent replied grimly. “I believe his ribs shifted in that fall earlier; it was only a matter of time before they punctured his lung, or caused a tear, at the very least. If his lung has been pierced, let us hope for Athos’ sake it is only a small tear; but, if it’s a sizeable hole. . .”

“His lung could collapse,” Aramis concluded, paling at the prospect. “Madre de Dios!”

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Aramis,” the doctor reassured calmly. “Give me a moment,” he said, frowning as he listened. 

“Doctor, what do you hear?”

“Aramis, fetch my listening cone from the shelf over there, will you?” Laurent asked, pointing toward the requested item. “The cone will help me hear the noises more clearly; I cannot quite pinpoint the injury.”

“Here, Doctor,” Aramis said, handing the cone to the physician. The medic waited, watching intently as the doctor moved the cone around the left side of Athos’ chest, listening to the patient’s breathing. 

“Ah, here we go. I am detecting light gurgling sounds here,” the doctor dabbed his finger over the space between the fourth and fifth rib. “The distinctive sounds emanating from this area of the lung confirms my suspicions. . ."

“Athos has a tear. Oh, God,” Aramis groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. He turned away, catching the worried glances of his brothers; he answered their unspoken questions with a silent shrug.

“It may just be a minor tear, but we must prepare him for surgery immediately,” the doctor announced, standing to retrieve his medical kit. “I’m afraid we have no time to lose.”

****

**~§~**

 

Monsieur Pettigrew pulled the wagon through the arched entrance of the Musketeer garrison, stopping just inside the courtyard.

“I need some men over here!” Captain Tréville bellowed, jumping down from his horse. “We need to get these two into the infirmary, carefully. Durand, run to Doctor Guérin’s clinic and see if he could spare a nurse or two to help out.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Musketeer replied, jumping into action.

Tréville stepped back, nodding approvingly as the two stretchers bearing Fernier and Lémieux were taken from the wagon. However, before he could stop the Musketeers inside the wagon, they unwittingly pulled away the blanket covering the coffins, exposing them to view. 

The captain cringed as a collective gasp resounded through the expanding crowd.

“Captain, who are in these coffins?” Musketeer Gauthier asked, his voice laced with dread.

The captain sighed wearily, remaining quiet.

“Captain, they are our brothers!” another Musketeer blurted. “We deserve to know who has fallen.”

“It’s Javon and Colbert,” Tréville replied sadly. “Please, take the coffins into the infirmary storage room; I will make burial arrangements for them as soon as possible.”

Gauthier slid the coffins toward a group of men, waiting to receive their brothers and carry them inside. The remaining Musketeers formed a line through the courtyard, falling silent as they stood at attention. The men raised their swords in salute as the procession went by, only releasing their salute once the coffins were out of sight.

Tréville allowed a faint smile to curl his lips, feeling proud of his regiment’s respectful display, honoring their fallen brothers. He turned on his heel to join his injured men in the infirmary. 

Captain Tréville stopped in his tracks inside the door as he spotted the team working feverishly over the seemingly unconscious Athos. He noted the pile of bandages on the floor, the roll of surgical tools already laid out on the table near the cot. “My God, what’s wrong?”

“Captain,” d’Artagnan frowned, his large eyes anxious. “Thank God, you’re back.”

“Captain, the doctor was about to begin surgery,” Aramis informed his commander, noting the worry on the older man’s face as he drew near. 

“Surgery?” Tréville repeated with apprehension. “What happened to Athos?” 

“The doctor believes Athos has a tear in his lung,” Aramis paused, “no doubt, the fall caused new injury, but his ribs may have shifted since then. Doctor Laurent can hear gurgling noises, indicating a tear with fluid pooling in the breach,” he explained.

“Dammit, that doesn’t sound good,” Tréville groaned.

“No, it is not good, Captain,” the doctor interjected, “but it is most fortunate that his lung has not yet collapsed. If the tear is small in size, it can be repaired,” he assured. “I can drain the breach with just a small incision where I will insert a tube; once the fluid is drained, he should be breathing easier in a matter of hours.”

“Thank God,” the captain breathed out, sighing heavily. “How long of a recovery?”

“As long as the tear is minor, Athos’ lungs should heal in about four to five weeks, provided infection doesn’t set in.”

“Doctor, I trust you will do everything in your power to prevent that from happening,” Tréville said firmly. “Athos has suffered enough, and he cannot afford any further setbacks. Get him well, Doctor!”

“That is indeed my intention, Captain,” Doctor Laurent insisted.

“Captain, you know we will do everything we can to help Athos recover,” Aramis assured, “but the outcome is ultimately in God’s hands.”

“Then I suggest you start praying, Aramis,” the captain replied, sharply. “Pray for resolution; I’ve grown weary of this damned ordeal DuBois has put us through,” he growled, turning to leave. 

“Captain, where are you going?”

“I’m going to get answers,” Tréville called back over his shoulder. “It’s time to put this matter to rest, once and for all.”

**~§~**

“Doctor Laurent, we came as soon as we could,” Nurse Celeste said. “We brought along some mullein oil, in case you needed more.”

“Ah, yes, that is wonderful, Nurse, thank you,” Doctor Laurent replied gratefully. “If you would see to Fernier and Lémieux; check for any further injuries after traveling. I am sure they will need to have their wounds cleaned, fresh salve applied, and a change of bandages.”

“Doctor, we have the hot water, brandy, and the towels,” assistant Michel said, placing the items on the table. “We’re ready to begin surgery.”

“Aramis, I’m going to sanitize the tools, while you prepare the patient for surgery,” Doctor Laurent instructed. “Make sure you clean the surgical area well, we cannot risk infection.”

“Athos, my brother, you’ve suffered enough already,” Aramis whispered, pouring a liberal amount of brandy over the patient’s side. “It all began with that damned tunnel collapse,” he mopped up the brandy. “If only we could turn back time and just let DuBois get away; chasing after him hasn’t been worth this suffering!”

“Listen to me, you’re _only_ going to get better from this point forward,” Aramis ordered. He placed a hand on Athos’ brow as he leaned in to whisper in his brother’s ear. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you recover, but you have to promise me that you’ll fight.”

“Aramis?” Doctor Laurent quietly interrupted, clearing his throat. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, it’s time to help Athos get well again.”

“Alright, I’m going to make a small incision here. . .” the doctor’s voice trailed off as he cut the skin between the ribs. Aramis immediately followed behind him with a towel, wiping away the stream of blood flowing from the wound.

“Now, let us see what we’re dealing with in here,” the doctor said, separating the flesh and probing through to the lung. “Ah, I see the tear; there is indeed quite an amount of blood pooling in the lung. No wonder Athos was having difficulty breathing.”

“Merde, it’s a wonder his lung didn’t collapse,” Aramis uttered in amazement. “This could have been much worse.”

“True, but it’s about time luck was on Athos’ side, for a change,” Doctor Laurent replied, threading the tube into the torn lung. “There, and now we will allow this blood to drain out. In the meantime, let us sanitize the wound with the oil, and pack the incision well with cotton and mullein salve.”

“What next?”

“We wait.”

“And pray,” Aramis added, crossing himself. 

“So, now we wait,” Aramis whispered in Athos’ ear, “and I’ll be here with you, and so will Porthos and d’Artagnan. We’re all right here with you, brother; we won’t leave until you wake up, I promise.”

****

**THE QUEST, CITY OF PARIS:**

**_Bastille Saint-Antoine:_**

Captain Tréville paced impatiently in the warden’s office, wincing as he stopped to stretch out his tight muscles. He grumbled, being forced to wait while the two prison guards who had escorted DuBois on the day of the hanging, were interrogated in a separate room.

Tréville jumped slightly as the office door suddenly burst open. A large burly man dressed in black forcibly shoved the two prisoners into the room, both fell to their knees in front of the warden.

“Warden, I have their signed confessions, each made their mark,” the burly man announced. “Both men have admitted to taking payment from Monsieur DuBois for information leading to his escape.”

“They have confessed to accepting bribes,” the warden said dryly, “I will handle the punishment of Roussel and Lemaire myself. Of course, you are free to read over the documents.”

“No, that is not acceptable,” Captain Tréville countered. “I must take the documents _and_ the prisoners to the king. Roussel and Lemaire will be surrendered to His Majesty’s Musketeers to face punishment accordingly.”

“I will not simply hand over _my_ guards!”

“I have a letter from His Majesty ordering you to surrender the men,” Tréville argued.

“And where is this letter?” the warden challenged.

“Right here, Warden.” Tréville pulled out the letter and tossed it across the desk to the warden’s hands. The older man paled, recognizing the Bourbon coat of arms impressed in the waxed seal.

“As you can see, your prison guards are now wards of His Majesty,” Captain Tréville stated firmly. He called over his shoulder, “Gentlemen, you may enter!”

Four Musketeers, dressed in their signature blue cloaks draped over a single shoulder, stepped into the office and surrounded the prisoners. “We are hereby taking into custody the prisoners, Roussel and Lemaire, who will be delivered to His Majesty as requested,” announced Musketeer Duval.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said, nodding to the men. “Escort them _directly_ to the palace, and to His Majesty. I cannot accompany you; I must be off to my next order of business. Warden,” the captain tipped his head politely, departing the office.

 

**_Hôtel de Ville:_ **

Captain Tréville walked into the office of _Secrétaire d'État de la Guerre_ and frowned, taking notice of the man behind the desk who seemed to be analyzing him from head to toe.

“May I help you?” the man asked, an obvious edge to his voice.

“Yes, I am here to look up the military records of one of my Musketeers, Adrien Javon,” Captain Tréville said firmly, not in the mood for pettiness.

“I’m sorry, but our records are confidential,” the man said nonchalantly.

“Look, I am in no mood for your games,” Tréville growled. “I am Captain Tréville of the King’s Musketeers; I am here to investigate an important matter for His Majesty. Shall I report you as uncooperative?” 

“Well, I um. . .”

“Perhaps, I should report you as obstructing in an official investigation of His Majesty!” Tréville clarified.

“N-no, no, that will not be necessary, Captain,” the man insisted, suddenly cooperative. He pulled out several ledgers, putting them in a stack on the desk. “I will leave you to your research.”

“Thank you.” Treville perused through first book, but didn’t find Javon listed. Disappointed, he thumbed through next book with the same result. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he felt the dull pain of a headache coming on. 

“Are you having difficulty in finding what you are looking for?” the man asked as he noticed the frustration of the captain.

“Yes, I can’t seem to find. . .” Tréville stopped mid-sentence as his eyes fell on the name he was searching for. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he uttered, “here he is! I found him, Adrien Javon.” 

“Captain, this column states the year he began his service,” the man said, pointing with his finger, “and this column states the year he was discharged from service. I see that he served with the combat engineers. . .” his voice trailed off as he read.

“My God!” Tréville exclaimed with a gasp. “Javon was assigned with the _sapeurs_ in the _Arme du Génie_ ,” he read. “I don’t believe it!” 

“Why yes, a sapper specializes in tunnel warfare,” the man proclaimed with enthusiasm. “Their job is to set charges, or explosives, in order to destroy enemy fortifications.”

“Yes, I am fully aware of what sappers do, Monsieur,” Tréville replied sharply. He scrubbed a hand down his face, holding it over his gaping mouth. “This explains why DuBois sought out Javon,” he whispered to himself.

“Pardon me, Captain?”

“But how did DuBois know about Javon’s military service?” the captain asked aloud, ignoring the man’s confused stare. “There _has_ to be a connection between the two that I’m missing.”

“Didn’t you say that these records are confidential?” Tréville asked the man. “Meaning, a private citizen cannot access these records without proper authorization. Am I correct?”

“That is correct, Captain.”

“Then how could DuBois have known about Javon’s military expertise as a sapper?”

“Perhaps they served together in some capacity, eh?”

“I didn’t see DuBois’ name listed anywhere,” Tréville replied, his brow creased in deep thought. “No, there has to be another connection,” he murmured to himself.

“Perhaps they were childhood friends,” the man suggested, “and they grew up together.”

“I’ll be dammed,” the captain uttered, his face lighting up with realization. “Why, that could very well be the connection.”

“Well, I hope that I have been of some help.”

“Yes, you’ve been of great help, Monsieur!” Tréville closed the ledger, pushing the stack back to the man. “Thank you, but I must go. I have another stop to make before I report to His Majesty.”

“I’m happy to have been of service. . .” the man stopped short as the captain hurried from the office, the door slamming shut behind him. 

 

**_Église Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois:_ **

“Excuse me, Sister, but where might I find the vital records,” Captain Tréville corrected, “the ledgers in which birth records are kept?” 

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, but I cannot give you access to our records.”

“Sister, this matter is extremely important,” Tréville insisted. “I have to report to His Majesty on an urgent matter after I am finished here, so please let us skip the formalities.”

“Fine, I will take you to see Father Perrine,” the nun relented, “he should be able to assist you.”

**~§~**

“These are all the records that we have,” Father Perrine said, placing the ledgers on the desk. “If we do not have what you are looking for, then you will have to visit other parishes, both inside Paris and out of the city.”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that, Father, for I am in a hurry.” Tréville perused through the pages, hastily running his finger over the long lists of names.

After about an hour of fruitless searching, the captain’s finger suddenly stopped in the middle of a page. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, blinking to clear his vision. “I’ll be damned!”

“Monsieur!” Father Perrine exclaimed with surprise. “Please, remember where you are.”

“My God!” Captain Tréville blurted, ignoring the shocked priest. “Javon,” he read aloud, “parents, Jean-Luc and Anna; children, Adrien, Jean-Claude, Marie, Mathieu.”

“Yes, and if you’ll see in the column beside their name, it lists the name of their spouse,” the priest said, pointing to the next column.

“Marie’s spouse is. . . dear God. . . her spouse is Pierre DuBois! Adrien and Marie were. . . Mother of God!” Captain Tréville exclaimed, his face growing pale. He stood too abruptly and had to grab the edge of the desk to anchor himself as he swayed.

“Captain, are you alright?”

“Adrien and Marie were brother and sister!” the captain voiced with shock. “DuBois and Javon were brothers-in-law! My God, my God!”

“Monsieur, you are in the house of our Lord!”

“My deepest apologies, Father,” the captain said, tipping his head apologetically. “I must go see His Majesty immediately!” he said, running from the room, through the nave and out the front doors of the cathedral.

Tréville had begun his quest in search of answers, but learning the truth has been a stab to his heart. Worse, he still had the dreaded task of revealing to His Majesty that one of his Musketeers was a traitor.

TBC in Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _pulmonary laceration_ can be treated with just supplemental oxygen, ventilation, and drainage of fluids from the chest cavity. A tube can be used to remove blood and air from the chest cavity—only about 5% of cases require surgery. Full recovery is common with proper treatment, and usually heals within three to five weeks.
> 
> A _Sapper_ was an expert first used by the French military, excavating trenches under defensive musket or artillery fire to advance upon a besieging army's position: a.k.a. destroying (or sapping) enemy fortifications.
> 
> A French sapeur is the title for the military combat engineers. Military sappers fall under the umbrella of the Engineering Arm or Arme du Génie. 
> 
> **Secretary of State of War:** The _Secrétaire d'État de la Guerre_ was one of the four specialized Secretaries of State in France during the Ancien Régime. In 1791, under the First French Republic, the Secretary of State of War became titled Minister of War.
> 
>  **Hôtel de Ville** This building houses the city's local administration. Since 1357, the City of Paris's administration has been located at the same location where the Hôtel de Ville stands today. 
> 
> **Église Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois.** Back when the Louvre was still a royal palace (Palais du Louvre), Église Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois was their place of worship, literally located “next door.” The church drew in an assortment of royalty, courtesans, men of art and law, and local artisans.
> 
> The cathedral was constructed in the early 12th century and was known then as Saint-Germain-le-Rond. The low point in the cathedral’s history was August 24, 1572, the evening of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre. The tower bells of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois rang, signaling the supporters of Catherine de Médici, Marguerite de Guise, Charles IX, and the future Henri III, to launch a slaughter of thousands of Protestant Huguenots, who had been invited to celebrate the marriage of Henri de Navarre to Marguerite de Valois.
> 
> Church records are excellent sources of information on names, dates, and places of baptisms, marriages, and deaths. Most persons who lived in France were recorded in a church record.  
> Church records are vital records made by priests and are crucial to pre-1792 research in France. Since civil authorities did not begin registering vital statistics until 1792, church records are often the only sources of family information before this date.


	17. The Truth Revealed, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My God, Javon, was your alliance with your brother-in-law worth such dishonor brought upon your good name? Such a shame. Such a stupid, worthless, unnecessary shame,” Treville muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here is the second part to the uncovered truth. Our captain reveals the truth to His Majesty, and judgement follows - what could be worse than one's name being wiped from memory as though one never existed? Hmm, a good question to contemplate on the weekend of Memorial Day here in the U.S.. I know that other countries have their own Remembrance Day, but take a moment and remember the fallen heroes of our past (including the gallant and noble d'Artagnan, who died honorably on the battlefield in 1673). There is little worse than a soldier's name and legacy being faded by time and forgotten, as though they never existed. So, remember them... lest we forget!
> 
> Thank you to Mountain Cat for finding my mistakes.

**PALAIS DU LOUVRE:**

 

Captain Tréville took a deep breath, dreading the daunting task of bearing bad news to His Majesty, but especially when it involved a traitorous Musketeer. 

_A traitorous Musketeer! I worked with Javon for years, and yet I knew little of his past. Was there anything genuine about that man?_

_Was there a genuine sense of duty to me as his captain? Did Javon take his service to his king and country seriously, or was it all a lie?_

The captain swallowed hard; squaring his shoulders he bravely walked into the throne room and paused, bowing low before his king.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” King Louis inquired, distractedly pulling on a hangnail on his index finger. He winced as he pulled too hard, causing his finger to bleed. “Pleath protheed,” the king said, sucking on the sore digit.

The captain inwardly sighed, wondering how the ruler of France somehow reminded him of a spoiled child. If not for the urgency of the matter bringing him to the palace, he might have found the scene before him amusing.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Majesty,” Tréville said, tipping his head. 

“I assume this visit is in regard to DuBois, and my Musketeer, Javon?” the king asked with an edge to his voice. He pressed the injured finger against his pant leg, staining the fabric with his blood. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, I have uncovered disturbing information,” Tréville paused, still reeling from his discoveries. “I believe you deserve to know the truth, Sire, and what I reveal to you should answer all your questions pertaining to this matter.”

“Yes, yes, I love a mystery, but I love solving them even more,” King Louis said, sitting forward on his throne with anticipation. “Please proceed, Captain, and don’t leave a single detail out.”

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, this will not be easy to hear,” Tréville warned, “but you must know the truth of what happened. . . _all_ of the truth.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” the king pouted, his enthusiasm visibly deflating. “Go ahead, Captain, what have you learned?”

Captain Tréville shifted on his feet nervously, then proceeded to tell His Majesty of each stop he had made; he spoke of the findings he had learned, each truth providing a vital missing piece of the mystery. The captain told of Javon’s military background as a sapper, at which the king gasped aloud.

“My God, that traitor served honorably in _my_ army, but then used his experience against me?” the king fumed. “How _dare_ he!”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville acknowledged with a nod. “I’m afraid there is more, Sire.” 

The captain continued telling the king all about the familial connections to Marie DuBois, the man’s wife who was accidentally killed some years ago, to Javon being Marie’s brother; each man had found their own way to exact revenge on the Musketeers.

Tréville revealed Javon’s cause of death as a gunshot wound to the chest, a desperate attempt to silence the man and prevent the truth from leaking out. When the captain finished telling the king all that he knew, His Majesty was slumped on the armrest of his throne, cradling his forehead in his hand.

“How could this happen under our noses and without our knowledge?” King Louis asked, dumbfounded. “How could some _commoner_ fool my Musketeers for so many years? How could he outwit my finest soldiers, without raising so much as an _inkling_ of discovery?”

“I apologize, Your Majesty. . .” the captain began.

“Tell me, Captain, how were these two able to get away with this damnable deception and revenge—even killing _MY_ men—without being stopped until now?” King Louis shouted, his face turning red with rage.

“I do not know, Your. . .” 

“I do not want to hear _excuses,_ Captain,” the king interrupted angrily, “I want to know why these two men played my Musketeers for fools!”

“Your Majesty. . .”

“Nevermind, nevermind,” the king waved off the apology with disinterest. “It is too bad the two men are dead; I would have rather enjoyed watching them hang! No matter, I shall enjoy watching the two prison guards hang for taking bribes and committing treason against their king. Oh, yes, I will make examples of them. I will show everyone that I will not be made to look a fool!”

“Of course, you are not a fool, Your Majesty,” Tréville agreed, bowing his head. He stared at the floor, waiting for the king to continue his angry tirade.

“I suppose the two men, DuBois and Javon, have no living dependents?” the king inquired. “No spouse or children left behind?” he clarified.

“No, Javon had no dependents, and as you already know, DuBois’s wife and unborn child were killed,” Tréville answered. 

“So, there is no pension owed to anyone,” the king sneered. “No one that I can deny payment to?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Majesty.”

“DuBois can be buried in a mass grave or tossed out with the refuse, I care not which,” King Louis stated, waving his hand. “However,” his features suddenly hardened, his voice low and threatening, “as for Musketeer Javon. . .”

Captain Tréville waited, his eyebrows raised.

“As for Musketeer Javon, I will wipe his name from my regimental records. Let it be known, from this moment forward, there will no longer be a record of Adrien Javon as ever having served in my regiment of Musketeers. His body will receive _no_ honorable treatment when he is removed from my garrison, and he _will_ be removed at once! Javon is to receive no salutes and no recognition from the men!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tréville replied, suppressing a sigh.

“Furthermore, I will include an addendum to Javon’s military service records stating his dishonorable act of treason to his king and to his country; his service in the army will be smeared with a black mark for all the ages.”

“Your Majesty, his military service _was_ honorable at the time, Sire.”

“It is no longer,” the king replied sharply, “In addition, since Javon is henceforth no longer recognized as one of my Musketeers, he is not allowed to be buried in the regiment’s cemetery; you may take his body to _Cimetière des Innocents,_ with nothing more than a wooden cross for his grave marker.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tréville bowed in acknowledgment. “Is there anything else, Sire?”

“I will schedule the prison guards’ hanging in two days,” the king informed, “my Musketeers will provide security, Captain. I suggest that, this time, you do not fail me in securing the premises.”

“Your regiment will be ready; I will make certain they do not let you down, Your Majesty.”

“They had better not, Captain, or else I will hold you personally responsible,” the king threatened. “Now, if you do not mind, your news has put me in a most disagreeable mood. I do not wish to discuss this anymore. You are dismissed, Captain.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Tréville replied, bowing low before leaving the throne room. Once out of view of the king, the captain scrubbed a shaking hand down his face as he released a long breath.

“My God, Javon, was your alliance with your brother-in-law worth such dishonor brought upon your good name? Such a shame. Such a stupid, worthless, unnecessary shame,” Tréville muttered, storming through the halls of the palace, wanting nothing more than to return to the garrison to check on his injured men.

 

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, INFIRMARY:**

Captain Tréville stopped at the infirmary door, silently watching as the late afternoon sun cast shadows over the three men keeping vigil beside their brother’s bed. He sighed, wondering how many times he had witnessed this scene before, and how many times might he see it again in the future.

Tréville thought over the experience he and his regiment had endured in recent weeks; he suddenly slumped against the doorframe, the weight of such burden bearing heavily on his shoulders. 

_What has happened to my regiment? I had a traitor amongst my ranks, conspiring to kill his Musketeer brothers, yet I was blind to his intentions._

_What does this say of the competency of my command?_

The captain stiffened, recovering from his emotional lapse; he pushed himself away from the doorframe with a determined exhale of breath. He struggled with all that had transpired, but he knew nothing would be gained by repeatedly questioning events of the past he could not change.

The experience with DuBois had most certainly scarred him, changed him. His duty as captain was to command a regiment of men who served and protected His Majesty, the King of France; and with that service, Captain Tréville expected dedication, honor and loyalty.

His regiment was comprised of honorable men—the elite guards of His Majesty—and yet he had been oblivious to the traitor in his ranks. _Perhaps, I do not know my men as well as I thought._

Tréville watched his men, noting how they had situated themselves around their brother’s bed. The captain couldn’t hear what the men were discussing, only fragmented murmurs floated his way. He noted the worry on d’Artagnan’s face and felt the sudden urge to join his men in their vigil.

“How is he doing?” Captain Tréville asked, approaching the bed.

“Still breathing,” Aramis replied in a whisper.

“Still alive,” Porthos added. 

“His lung is almost finished draining,” d’Artagnan interjected, “so he’s been breathing much easier than before.”

“That is certainly good news,” Tréville breathed a sigh of relief. “He seems to be doing better than when I left.”

“That’s right,” d’Artagnan blurted, recalling the reason for the captain’s departure earlier. “So, what did you find out?”

Captain Tréville frowned at the question, his shoulders drooping slightly.

The captain’s silence and demeanor spoke volumes, alerting the men that something was awry.

“Captain?” Aramis asked suspiciously, momentarily pulling his attention away from Athos. “What’s wrong? What did you find out?”

“I found out the truth,” Tréville replied matter-of-factly. “I found out everything.”

“Bloody hell, ‘at doesn’t sound good,” Porthos grumbled.

“It sure doesn’t,” Aramis agreed, glancing at his two brothers.

“Captain, why don’t you pull up a chair and tell us what you uncovered?” d’Artagnan suggested, motioning to an empty chair nearby.

“I really should get back to my office,” the captain responded hastily. “I have quite a bit of paperwork to do. . .”

“Cap’n,” Porthos interrupted, effectively capturing the older man’s attention. “Sir, it can wait. We know somethin’s wrong; wha’ is it?” 

“Talk to us, Captain. . . please,” d’Artagnan pleaded, again nodding toward the empty chair.

The captain sighed and slowly pulled up the chair, sitting down heavily. He breathed in deeply, scrubbing both hands down his face before looking up to his men. “Where do I begin?” he whispered.

“How about at the beginning?” Aramis replied softly, offering a reassuring smile. “Where was the first place you went?”

Captain Tréville remained quiet momentarily, then he began telling the men what had transpired at the Bastille, telling of the signed confessions of the two prison guards. He recalled the arrest of the guards and their delivery to His Majesty. The captain finished his spiel with the king’s ruling on having the guards hanged in two days.

The men were so shocked at the incredible news they couldn’t say anything, their jaws hanging slack. 

“His Majesty wants the regiment to provide security for the hanging,” he relayed in a low voice. “Should anything go wrong that day, I will be held personally responsible.”

“Madre de Dios!” 

“Bloody hell, Cap’n!” Porthos growled. “We should be there with you!”

“But you cannot, so there is no sense in discussing it,” Tréville replied firmly.

“Captain, it’s not your fault that DuBois bribed those prison guards,” d’Artagnan interjected defensively. “There is no way you could have known what they were planning!”

“I’m not sure who I can trust anymore,” the captain murmured quietly, “outside of those in this room.” 

Tréville looked over his shoulder to the far end of the infirmary where Fornier and Lémieux were sleeping soundly. He shook his head sadly, glancing over their bruised bodies covered in bandages. _Perhaps this happened because I trusted too much._

“Sir, they told us about what _really_ happened to Javon,” d’Artagnan said, following his commander’s gaze to the sleeping men. “It makes no sense. Why would DuBois want Javon dead?”

“Captain, what else happened out there?” Aramis inquired, his suspicions growing. The medic observed the older man’s grim features, noticing an air of sadness about him. He narrowed his eyes, “What are you _not_ telling us?”

“I had three other stops after visiting the Bastille,” Tréville began, “and my final stop was at the palace to see His Majesty.”

“About. . .?” Aramis prodded.

“Captain, what did you find out?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes darting apprehensively from the captain to his brothers.

The captain sighed heavily, setting his eyes on Athos, seemingly drawing strength from watching his injured lieutenant sleep. He glanced once more at his men, and then poured out what he had learned about Javon’s army service as a _sapeur_. 

Tréville explained the connection between Javon and DuBois, discovered through the church birth records, stopping as the men collectively gasped at the revelation.

“So, if they were brothers-in-law,” d’Artagnan began, “then why did DuBois intend to kill Javon?”

“Oi, you uncovered one mystery,” Porthos grumbled, “only to find another lurkin’ underneath.”

“DuBois was arrogant enough to believe he would get away with this scheme; he killed Javon so no one could trace the tunnel collapse back to him,” Tréville explained.

“Wait, what about the prison guards?” Aramis asked. “They diverted the prisoner _toward_ the tunnels! Surely, they had to know why.”

“No, the guards claim that DuBois never revealed to them who the munitions expert was,” Tréville informed the men. “DuBois was no fool, he kept his contacts in the dark about each other in order to cover his tracks. He was very smart; this scheme was well-planned out and well-executed. He had _every_ intention of getting away with it, disappearing without a trace.”

“But, how could he have been _that_ certain?” d’Artagnan asked, his temper flaring. “Was he so bold to think that he could just walk in here and kill Athos, and then walk back out through those gates without _anyone_ stopping him?” 

“Truthfully speaking, yes,” Tréville replied bluntly. “He intended to do _exactly_ that, even if it meant killing the doctor, or anyone else who stood in his way.” 

“DuBois wasn’t countin’ on you comin’ back to rescue us,” Porthos surmised, clenching his fists in anger.

“No, he was so sure that he had stopped us with that explosion,” the captain admitted, his eyes shutting against the memories flooding his mind. “Monsieur Pettigrew told me that he had found several barrels of gunpowder in his barn that had never ignited.” 

“Oh God. . .” Aramis gasped, falling back against his chair, his face drained of color.

“Pettigrew said that he had been meaning to fix the roof of his barn, but had never gotten around to it,” Tréville began, “he said that the roof was riddled with holes. The downpour of rain came through the roof, saturating the gunpowder so that three of the four barrels didn’t ignite; and the fuse lines were so saturated they couldn’t ignite. We were very, very fortunate.”

“Oh, dear God, you all could have been killed!” d’Artagnan shouted.

“Yes, if not for the rain,” Captain Tréville whispered.

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis blurted, paling at how close he had come to being killed. He leaned forward in his chair and buried his face in his hands, muttering inaudibly through his fingers.

“Hey, y’alright?” Porthos asked, watching his brother with concern.

Aramis didn’t answer, but quietly shook his head.

“Captain, that still doesn’t explain why DuBois shot Javon,” d’Artagnan commented, somewhat bewildered.

“Knowing DuBois, it was probably for no other reason than to see the shocked expression on Javon’s face before he shot him,” Tréville replied, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe he didn't think Javon had done enough to avenge his sister. I doubt we'll ever really know.” 

The group of men fell quiet, mulling over the conversation. 

“Since DuBois intended on killing everyone in that explosion,” Tréville broke the silence, “the last thing he had expected was us coming back here to rescue Athos and Porthos. When his plan was interrupted, he panicked.” 

“And Aramis gave ‘im a display of his fine shootin’ skills,” Porthos said proudly, clapping the marksman on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You alright, brother?”

“What about Javon?” Aramis demanded, ignoring Porthos’ question. “He was our brother, and yet he betrayed us!”

“‘At’s right, Cap’n!” Porthos agreed, his mood suddenly turning dark. “We served b‘side Javon for years; how did none of us know ‘bout ‘im?”

“I’ve wondered the same,” Tréville replied. “I have no answers, Porthos.”

“You said your fourth stop was at the palace,” d’Artagnan reminded the captain. “What did the king say?”

Tréville frowned and closed his eyes momentarily, remembering the king’s verdict. 

“Captain, what happened at the palace?” Aramis asked.

“It’s not good, gentlemen,” Tréville responded quietly, wiping a hand down his face, drawing worried glances from his three men. “The king has stripped Javon’s name from all Musketeer records. As of today, there is no documentation of anyone by the name of Adrien Javon as ever having served in His Majesty’s Regiment of Musketeers.”

“Bloody hell!” d’Artagnan gasped in surprise.

“Damn,” Porthos uttered softly to himself. The large Musketeer lowered his eyes, staring at his hands, though not really seeing them. “Why did Javon do it? Why?”

“Damn, damn, damn,” Aramis repeatedly whispered under his breath, looking up at the ceiling. 

“If only Javon knew what his treason has cost him!” d’Artagnan spat angrily. “He should know the dishonor he has brought upon himself, but he never will.” 

“Merde, I just thought of something,” Aramis voiced suddenly, snapping his fingers. “If Javon isn’t being recognized as a Musketeer, where will he be buried? What about his funeral arrangements?”

“His Majesty has ordered Javon’s coffin to be taken from the garrison without recognition or ceremony; he is to be removed without notice,” Tréville announced tonelessly, his face expressionless. “He will be buried in _Cimetière des Innocents_ with only a wooden marker for his grave.”

“Oh, Captain,” d’Artagnan groaned, “this is unbelievable!”

“I know hearing this has been difficult, but you needed to know the truth,” the captain whispered with regret. “And with that, I will leave you gentlemen for a while; I must get started on my paperwork.”

“Captain, I will speak for everyone in this regiment,” Aramis began, “and say that none of this is your fault.” 

“Thank you, but, as your captain, the responsibility still falls on my shoulders, regardless of the outcome—as it should.”

“No’ in this case, Cap’n,” Porthos countered firmly.

“Yes, well, I have a great deal of paperwork to do, so I must be on my way,” Tréville stood, clearing his throat. “I will stop by in the morning before breakfast.”

“Captain, where are you going?” Serge asked, passing by the captain with trays filled with food. “I just brought dinner for everyone.” 

“I will eat dinner in my office, thank you,” the captain called over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry your dinner is so late, boys,” Serge apologized, “but I wanted to give you time to discuss your matters in private.”

“Why, I didn’t even notice the time!” d’Artagnan exclaimed with a huff of breath, noticing the darkened sky with surprise.

“How could you _not_ notice that you’re sitting in a dark room with only the light of the moon streaming in?” Doctor Laurent chuckled while busily setting candles around the room. 

Assistant Michel lit the candles, while the doctor checked on the patients, Fernier and Lémieux, and then Athos.

“Doctor, Athos hasn’t stirred a bit since the surgery,” d’Artagnan pointed out with concern. “When is he going to wake up?”

“The fact that he hasn’t awakened yet is not surprising, young man,” the doctor replied, placing his ear over Athos’ chest to check his breathing. “Ah, his lungs sound much clearer, much better!”

“So, why hasn’t he regained consciousness yet?” d’Artagnan repeated the inquiry.

“Athos needs to sleep so his body can recover,” the doctor responded. “In fact, I would prefer it if he sleeps soundly through the night.”

“How does his wound look to you, Doctor?” Aramis asked, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Actually, Athos’ wound looks very good; it appears to be healing nicely, with no sign of infection,” the doctor reported happily. “I believe it’s time to remove the drainage tube and close the incision.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Aramis breathed a sigh of relief. “What do you need me to do?”

“Let’s get this tube out. . .” the doctor said, pulling out the device. “Aramis, you may start cleaning and sanitizing the wound with the brandy and mullein oil before I stitch his incision closed,” Laurent instructed. 

Aramis nodded in acknowledgement, quietly assisting the doctor in tending to the patient. “Looks like the worst is now behind you,” he whispered to Athos. “You are on the road to recovery, mon cher. We still have the night ahead of us, but the sun always rises in the morning.”

 

****

**~§~**

“There, that should do it for now,” Doctor Laurent announced, finishing up the last of the sutures. “I will be back in a few hours to check on him again; however, if something appears to be wrong, do not hesitate to call me.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll come and get you if anything happens,” Aramis replied, still wrapping Athos’ chest with fresh bandages.

“I don’t think I should have eaten anything,” d’Artagnan said, yawning. “I’m so full, all I want to do now is go to sleep.”

“Same ‘ere,” Porthos agreed, yawning and stretching his large body in the little chair.

“Why don’t you two go lie down,” Aramis suggested, “I’ll take the first watch.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos countered, feigning an unhappy growl. “We’re _all_ keepin’ watch over Athos tonight—sleep can wait.”

“That’s right,” d’Artagnan agreed, stubbornly propping his feet up on Athos’ bed. “We’re in this together. All for one. . .”

Aramis acknowledged the familiar slogan with a soft huff of air, smiling. He caught the strong gaze of Porthos, and then broke the visual bond to meet the waiting eyes of d’Artagnan. 

“And one for all,” the group echoed together. The men sat back in their chairs, trying to make themselves comfortable; they took in a deep breath, preparing themselves mentally for the long vigil ahead.

 

**MORNING:**

The early morning sun painted the sky in brilliant, soft shades of pink and orange. Morning dew dampened the wooden bannister, along which Captain Tréville slid his hand as he descended the stairs to the courtyard. He smiled at the distant sounds of roosters crowing in the city, mixing with the ringing bells of the nearby cathedral.

Finishing up with morning muster, the captain dismissed the men for breakfast while he headed to the infirmary to check on his men. Pausing at the doorway, he couldn’t suppress the smile as he watched his three men, supposedly keeping vigil over their sleeping brother, but all sound asleep, folded and bent uncomfortably in their chairs.

Tréville quietly pulled up a chair beside the sleeping d’Artagnan and sat down, watching Athos’ chest rise and fall with each unrestricted breath.

The captain smiled, “Ah, Athos, it’s good to see you breathing freely again, son.” He leaned over to gently pat the right arm, secured snugly in a sling.

“So, here we are again. It seems only yesterday I was at your bedside at the palace, wondering if the next labored breath you took would be your last,” Tréville whispered, his mind wandering back to the first night after the tunnel collapse. 

“You were so battered, your body nearly crushed, but you have come a long way since then,” Captain Tréville recalled, his body shuddering at the memory. “It seems only yesterday,” he paused, “and yet, so long ago.”

“I think you’re going to make it,” Tréville smiled, feeling the truth of his statement swelling in his heart. “As a regiment, as a family, we’re _all_ taking our first steps in healing today. Yes, it may be a slow progression, but we will take it one day, one step at a time.”

“Cap’nnn,” Athos slurred, opening his eyes, blinking as he met the surprised gaze of his captain. “We’lllll beeee ‘lrightttt.” 

“Athos?” Tréville jumped to his feet, not quite believing his eyes and ears. “Athos, how are you doing, son?”

“Mmmmnn,” Athos replied, his eyes closing again.

“No! Athos, stay with me!” the captain ordered. “Athos?”

“Captain?” Aramis asked, nearly falling off his chair. “Did Athos wake up? Is he awake?”

“Well, he _was_ awake” Tréville paused, “for a few seconds.”

“That’s _very_ encouraging!” Aramis shouted happily. “Porthos, d’Artagnan, wake up!”

“Hmmmm, is Athos awake?” d’Artagnan asked groggily, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“Did ‘e say anythin’?” Porthos asked, groaning as he stiffly sat upright in his chair.

“Athos said,” the captain paused, blinking away the moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. 

“Captain?”

Captain Tréville shook his head, holding up a quiet hand. “Athos said, we were going to be alright,” he inhaled deeply, collecting his emotions, “and we will.”

“Life goes on,” the captain continued, “even after the painful, terrible, heart-wrenching times that we’ve had. This regiment will move forward to a brighter future,” Tréville cleared his throat. “Today, we begin healing. Gentlemen, today is going to be a beautiful day!”

NEXT: The Epilogue - at last we have reached the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cimetière des Innocents:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The Holy Innocents' Cemetery, or _Cimetière des Saints-Innocents_ ( _Cimetière des Innocents_ ) is a defunct cemetery in Paris that was used from the Middle Ages until the late 18th century. It was the oldest and largest cemetery in Paris and had often been used for mass graves. It was closed because of overuse in 1780, and in 1786 the remaining corpses were exhumed and transported to the unused subterranean quarries near Montparnasse, known as the Catacombs. The Place Joachim-du-Bellay in the Les Halles district now covers the site of the cemetery.
> 
> The cemetery took its name from the attached church of the Holy Innocents that has now also disappeared.


	18. Farewell, Clocks, and Butterflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends, we have finally reached the end of this crazy journey. I had no idea that this story would end up with so much packed into it - after all, it was only supposed to be a one-shot! I am thrilled that so many of you enjoyed this tale; I thank you for the comments and kudos. Thank you to Mountain Cat for your suggestions, and for correcting my mistakes.  
> I hope you do not mind that this is a super-long chapter (to put it mildly) but I wanted to end it today, rather than have it split up. So, give yourself time to read - perhaps snuggle up on the couch with a cup of tea, or grab a bowl of popcorn - but I hope you ENJOY!

**MUSKETEER GARRISON, REGIMENTAL CEMETERY:**

Captain Tréville scanned the regiment of Musketeers standing with absolute stillness, their faces solemn, eyes focused; their signature blue cloaks fluttered in the strong breeze, curling out like wings ready to take flight. 

The captain quietly sighed, pondering the many times he had led such a service in memory of a departed soldier and quietly wondered how many more times it would be repeated. Today, they gathered behind the freshly dug grave of their friend and young brother-in-arms, Tomás Colbert. 

“This regiment has suffered far too much in recent months,” Captain Tréville began, looking over the somber faces of his men. “Nothing I say will ever alleviate the senseless tragedy of Colbert’s death, so I will refrain from commenting as such; I know you have all experienced the pain of his loss.” 

“A few days ago, I stood before you to say that we were finished being victims, and it was time for us to begin healing. Today is no exception,” the captain paused, “even as we bury one of our own.”

“Colbert did his job honorably as a Musketeer, though he not die honorably; there is no honor in murder. However, brooding negatively about circumstances we cannot change makes you no better than the man who took Colbert’s life.” 

“We must eradicate the darkness in our own hearts before we are able to illuminate the world around us,” Tréville stressed to the men. “We must better ourselves before we can better the community. Gentlemen, we will learn from our mistakes so no other innocent person has to die needlessly, and we will do this to honor Colbert’s memory.”

“From this moment on, we will preserve Colbert’s memory by marching onward, holding our heads up high and not allowing hate, vengeance, treason, and murder to defeat us,” the captain declared. 

“Colbert was the purest of soldiers,” the captain said warmly. “He had the heart of a volunteer with the eagerness of youth; he was untarnished by age, affliction and war.”

“Today, we lay Colbert to rest among his fallen brothers where he will join with them on eternal watch over us,” the captain stated, picking up Colbert’s sword and hat.

“Rest easy, son,” Captain Tréville said, thrusting the sword into the dirt at the head of the grave and placing the plumed hat on the pommel. “Your duty with the King’s Musketeers is finished; job well done, Soldier.”

Captain Tréville tossed a shovelful of dirt into the grave, pausing to gaze over Colbert’s coffin. He blinked back the moisture stinging his eyes, before handing the shovel to the man next in line and walking away. 

A long procession of Musketeers began, each paying their respects and saying goodbye as they shoveled dirt into the grave until the coffin disappeared underneath a growing mound of dirt. 

The last of the men departed as a gust of wind blew across the cemetery, spinning the hat on the sword in circles, its feather catching the wind like a sail. 

As the wind slowed to a gentle breeze, a butterfly appeared and alighted on the feather, its blue wings beautifully emphasized by the white downy barbs. The lovely creature swayed with the breeze, seemingly fascinated with the feather, before flying off and disappearing into the sky. 

 

**ONE MONTH LATER:**

The din of steel echoed as a mid-afternoon breeze blew through the courtyard, cleansing the air of dust stirred up by the men sparring in the sweltering summer sun. 

Athos and Porthos sat at their favorite table, watching as Aramis and d’Artagnan trained the new cadets; the finesse of the two instructors dancing around the less experienced swordsmen fascinated the restless, still-recovering duo. 

“Let me ‘ave a moment with ‘em,” Porthos called, stretching out his newly-uncasted leg, wincing slightly as his stiff muscles protested.

“We’re fine, Porthos,” Aramis called out. “Besides, you need to rest that leg.”

“Actually, I believe you should exercise that leg,” Athos prompted, “before it stiffens so that you cannot walk on it without a limp.” 

“Rubbish,” Porthos growled, “you’ve been hangin’ around Aramis too long. My leg still feels like I ‘ave that damned cast on; I can’t bend it.”

“Give it time,” Athos instructed, his mouth ghosting a smile. “The more you exercise your leg, the faster it will heal.”

“Aramis tell you to say ‘at?” Porthos asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“No, I had little else to in the infirmary after you, Aramis and d’Artagnan left but listen to Doctor Laurent instructing us on the healing benefits of physical exercise,” Athos drawled.

“I’m glad you’re out of there,” Porthos huffed dryly, “before Laurent’s influence rubbed off on ya more. One mother-hen in our circle is enough.” 

“It is sound advice,” Athos added, casting a sideways glance at his brother. 

“Have you been exercisin’ that arm?” Porthos asked, motioning his head at Athos’ right arm, now free of the sling.

“I’ve been practicing sword drills in my rooms,” Athos began, “it has been of some help in relieving the stiffness of my shoulder, though it needs more work.”

“Not sure if Doctor Laurent would approve of you doin’ sword drills just yet.”

“No, my drills are quite elementary,” Athos admitted with frustration. “Doctor Laurent has approved footwork, grip and guard positions, but no striking, parrying, or lunging until my ribs and shoulder have fully healed.”

“Sound advice,” Porthos concurred, raising a single eyebrow.

“Touché,” Athos replied, clapping Porthos on the knee as he got up from the table. 

“Where ya goin’?” Porthos asked, straightening on the bench.

“To get a little more of that exercise I mentioned.”

“Athos,” Porthos warned sharply, catching the swordsman by the arm. “Solo drills in your room are one thing, but sparrin’ with a partner is diff’rent.”

“I have no intention of hurting myself” Athos insisted, pulling away, “or upsetting the good doctor. I am well-versed in the instruction of young recruits; and I am not sparring, I am merely advising.” 

“Athos, I still think ‘at isn’t a good idea!” Porthos called after his friend. “Bloody hell,” he growled, his warnings ignored.

Athos didn’t intervene, but quietly watched as Aramis sparred with a particularly clumsy recruit. As the challenging lesson continued, the marksman remained patient with his young recruit while Athos found it increasingly difficult to remain silent. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but it seems that I have two left feet,” the young cadet apologized to Aramis. 

“Begin again,” Aramis coached, returning to the starting position. 

Athos groaned, shaking his head in disappointment, as the young cadet nearly tripped over his own feet in an attempt to block a striking lunge. 

“That is precisely what happens when you do not place your feet in the proper position, at the proper distance apart,” Athos instructed gently. The swordsman demonstrated the correct stance, watching as the cadet mimicked his movements. “No, your footwork is all wrong,” he corrected again. “The position of your feet is the cause of your body being off-balance.”

“Would you like to teach this class?” Aramis half-heartedly teased, not expecting Athos to take him up on the offer.

“Since you asked, I would be happy to instruct.” 

“I wasn’t serious,” Aramis protested in a low whisper. “Athos, you’re not cleared for sparring yet.”

“I have been reminded by Porthos of the same,” Athos drawled. “There is no danger to my ribs in mere footwork instruction,” he said, tapping the cadet’s boots with his blade and nodding approvingly as the young man moved to the proper stance.

“Try again,” Aramis coached, taking position in front of the cadet. He kept a wary eye on Athos as the swordsman guided the young man’s feet with the flat of his blade.

“I heard Athos was the best swordsman in France,” an unruly cadet with an overinflated opinion of his own ability sneered from the swelling crowd, “but he can’t even spar! I’ll bet any one of us could best him,” he laughed, “even clumsy Garnier could.”

Athos’ head snapped in the direction of the laughter, indignation flashing in his green eyes; the swordsman maintained his temper, though his features hardened. 

“You, over here with me,” Athos ordered the cocky recruit. “En garde,” he snapped, assuming the position. 

“Athos, don’t get pulled into this,” Aramis warned, pausing his lesson. “I will deal with this man.”

Athos ignored the warning, his jaw set, his eyes focused and determined. Glancing at the position of his opponent’s feet, the swordsman correctly surmised the man’s first move and stood ready, easily parrying the cadet’s strike with an annoyed swipe of his blade. 

The cadet attacked again, but Athos easily sidestepped to his right, swinging his sword around and upward in one graceful movement to block his opponent’s blade. Circling around, the swordsman flicked his wrist, bringing his blade underneath the cadet’s rapier with a slide of steel on steel. With an aggressive upward push, Athos effectively loosened his opponent’s grip, sending the sword flying into the air.

A second cadet joined in from the crowd, suddenly pouncing at the swordsman with a forceful, frontal advance. Athos instinctively raised his right arm, blocking the striking blow with a crash of steel, but the impressive move sent jolts of pain up his arm, jarring his shoulder. 

“Damn,” Athos gasped, dropping his sword as pain momentarily numbed his arm so that he couldn’t hold his blade. 

“Athos!” Aramis cried out, rushing to his brother’s side. “Are you alright?” 

“I knew we could best him!” the cocky recruit laughed. Giving the man no time to react, Aramis suddenly whirled around, swiftly knocking the man’s sword to the ground and kicking it away. 

“Aramis!” Captain Tréville bellowed from the balcony, “I want those two recruits put on report immediately! Athos, in my office. Now!”

“Dammit,” Athos muttered. The swordsman picked up his fallen sword with his left hand while cradling his right arm close to his body, quietly berating himself for not heeding Porthos’ earlier warning.

 

**CAPTAIN’S OFFICE:**

“Sir,” Athos announced himself as he closed the door. He waited patiently at the captain’s desk, his eyes focused straight ahead.

“Sit down,” Captain Tréville ordered sharply. “As your captain, I am fully aware that you have not been cleared for duty, and that Doctor Laurent has yet to lift your medical restriction. So, imagine my surprise at finding you sparring with the recruits!” the captain shouted. 

“Sir, I. . .”

“You were _specifically_ instructed to refrain from sparring, and other activities deemed potentially dangerous, until your wounds have healed,” the captain interrupted. “Am I correct?”

“Yes, Sir, but. . .”

“Then explain what you were doing out there!”

“I have no excuse, Sir,” Athos offered firmly.

“Athos, I released you early from the infirmary so you could recuperate in your own room—even against the doctor’s wishes,” Tréville scolded. “You had recovered sufficiently enough that I allowed you to _observe_ the men in these training exercises, not _participate_ in them.”

Athos remained quiet. He knew the captain was right and he had no argument in his defense; he had simply grown impatient while waiting for his injured body to slowly recuperate. 

The former comte took great pride in serving his king and his country as a Musketeer. Honor, devotion to duty, and selfless sacrifice defined the very essence of who Athos was as a soldier, and as a man. 

However, as he lay in bed convalescing, having nothing more to do than read, he felt a growing sense of unease, a self-loathing of his weakened state. While he enjoyed enriching his mind and catching up on his desired reading, his indomitable spirit was aching for activity.

The captain sighed, understanding his lieutenant’s frustration in the slow pace of his recovery. After hearing the commotion, Tréville had stepped out of his office in time to catch the deliberate goading and recklessness of the boastful recruits; he knew none of it was Athos’ fault. 

Captain Tréville made a mental note to deal personally with the undisciplined recruits at a later time; men with such blatant disregard for authority, or the well-being of their fellow soldiers, had no place in his Musketeer regiment. 

“I understand you want to get back to work, Athos,” Tréville said, “but your body has been through a traumatic ordeal and you must give it time to heal properly.”

“Captain, I have healed well enough to return to light duty, at the very least,” Athos insisted. “It is only Doctor Laurent’s stubborn, overly cautious nature that is preventing me from returning.”

Captain Tréville snorted. _Athos is calling Doctor Laurent stubborn?_ “You’re not understanding this from our perspective, son,” Tréville said softly. “Do you realize how close we came to losing you?” 

Athos closed his eyes, his mind drifting. He remembered the crushing pain in his chest, the agony so severe it took his breath away. He recalled the desperation he had felt while trapped underneath the weight of the stones, and though he would never openly admit it, least of all to his three brothers, in the midst of his suffering, he had wished for death. At least if he were dead, the pain would stop.

“I know you better than you think, son,” Tréville broke the silence, startling Athos from his memories. “If you had died, your loss would have been unbearable.” 

“Your brothers stayed beside you, watching your chest rise and fall,” the captain said in a low whisper. “I saw them literally holding their breath, waiting for you to breathe again. . . and I was no different, as I did the same.”

“I regret that I worried you,” Athos admitted softly. “If I hadn’t been so insistent on catching DuBois, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened,” his thoughts drifted off to that fateful afternoon.

“A prisoner of His Majesty had escaped, it was our duty to secure that prisoner with any and all means possible,” Tréville pointed out. “Athos, you had no way of knowing what DuBois had planned down in those tunnels.”

“I almost caught him, but he slipped from my grasp,” Athos confessed in a whisper. “If only I could turn back time.”

“If we could turn back time,” Tréville repeated softly under his breath. “I have something I would like to show you,” he said, moving to his bureau and retrieving the item from the drawer.

The captain returned to his desk, sitting heavily in his chair, sighing as he gazed at the item in his hand. Tréville turned the piece over, shaking his head at the caked-on blood still staining the metal. He closed his eyes, shuddering as his thoughts returned to the harrowing night at the palace when he first held the pocket clock in his hand.

“This belongs to you,” Tréville said softly, placing the time piece on the desk in front of Athos. “I’ve had the clock with me since the night of the tunnel collapse, though I wasn’t sure what I would do with it. Take it, do what you will,” he pushed the clock closer to the stunned swordsman.

Athos turned white as a ghost, recoiling from the smashed clock as though it were something grotesque. “I thought. . . I thought it was ruined. . . smashed in pieces,” he whispered in surprise. “How? Where. . .?”

“When the physician removed your doublet, the clock fell from your pocket,” Tréville replied. “I’m afraid most of the inner parts scattered all over the floor, but the metal casing is still remarkably intact, though the glass is broken.”

Athos picked up the clock, turning it over; he narrowed his eyes, trying to read the scraped, now-illegible inscription. “It used to read, ‘Happy Birthday, d’Artagnan’,” he said, running his thumb over the letters.

“I thought this would help,” Athos paused, taking in a deep breath. “The clock would help d’Artagnan make morning muster on time.” He ran his thumb over the broken edges, noting the smears of blood staining the metal, and his throat tightened; he gasped, his breath coming in painful wheezes as though his lungs were constricting. 

“Damn,” he cursed, unable to take in air.

“Athos!” the captain exclaimed, jumping to his feet with alarm. “Athos, are you alright?”

“Mnghhhh,” Athos mumbled, feeling like he was suffocating. 

“Athos, look at me,” Tréville ordered, taking the swordsman’s chin. “Breathe slowly. . . in and out. . . inhale. . . keep breathing, slowly. That’s it; you’re doing good.”

“You sound. . . you sound like. . . like Aramis,” Athos rasped, letting out a pathetic snicker at the comparison. He closed his eyes, calming himself while trying to suppress the panic racing through his mind. Slowly, he controlled his breathing as he squeezed the clock in his palm, allowing the pain to focus him. 

“Athos, do I need to call the doctor?”

“No,” Athos croaked in a harsh whisper. “When I was trapped un-underneath the rocks, I could. . . feel the clock pressing against my ribs. I felt the jagged shards of glass cutting into my skin.” 

“Yes, your chest was covered in broken glass,” Tréville whispered. “We picked pieces of glass out of half a dozen cuts, at least.” 

“I had just purchased the clock before heading to the palace,” Athos recalled. “I didn’t have time to store it away in my room, so I put it in my pocket with plans of giving it to d’Artagnan that night at the Wren. Captain, it’s been almost two months since his birthday; we never gave him his gifts.”

“Your birthday gift to him was surviving, Athos,” the captain said gently. “It was all d’Artagnan talked about—that you survive. It was all he wanted.” 

“Thinking about d’Artgnan’s birthday is what kept me alive in the tunnel,” Athos admitted, his voice soft. “I just wanted to let go and be free of the pain. It would have been easier to stop struggling for the next breath. . . but I couldn’t do so on his birthday.”

“Damn,” Captain Tréville cursed, his breath hitching. He sat heavily on his desktop, running a shaking hand down his face; he remained quiet, lost in thought.

“D’Artagnan spoke of a promise he had asked of you,” the captain said finally. 

“Yes, he made me promise,” Athos paused, closing his eyes at the memory, “that I wouldn’t leave him. I intended to keep that promise, on that day, at least. I didn’t want to die on _that day_ ,” he repeated adamantly. “I could not be the reason why his birthday became a day of mourning, a day he would dread every year.”

“If the unthinkable had happened, the blame would have fallen entirely on DuBois, _not_ on you,” Tréville corrected gently. 

“D’Artagnan’s birthday was forgotten because of DuBois,” Athos snorted. “Yet he has never complained once.”

“No, and he never would have,” Captain Tréville replied softly. “As a career soldier myself, I have come to realize that life isn’t about _things,_ it’s about people. The only gift d’Artagnan asked for—the only gift that _any_ of us had asked for—was that you survived, that you lived. This watch is a reminder of what you gave to us.” 

Athos looked up quizzically, his brow creased in confusion.

“You, Athos,” the captain answered, clearing his throat. 

“Why?” the swordsman whispered in disdain.

“Son, will you not accept how much you are loved and appreciated?” Tréville sighed. 

“I am undeserving of such affection,” Athos replied softly.

“Why would you say that?” Tréville asked, exasperated. “The man sitting before me is _not_ the undeserving person you believe him to be. Athos, you are so much more than that,” he said, glancing away.

Athos shook his head, remaining quiet.

“Only the strongest of men could have defied such injury,” Tréville said softly. “You proved to everyone that you are a fighter, a survivor. The clock should remind you that every day is a gift, and life should never be taken for granted.”

“Captain, I admit this clock represents many values, of which I cannot so eloquently express,” Athos said, pushing the clock back toward the captain. “Sir, I want you to have it; this clock belongs to you now,” he nodded, a soft smile forming.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tréville whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But what about your gift to d’Artagnan?”

“I plan to purchase another,” Athos said, determined. “He _will_ get his pocket clock, though long overdue.” The swordsman stood and straightened his doublet, wincing as the pain in his shoulder made itself known.

“I want you to go straight to the infirmary and get that shoulder checked out,” the captain ordered.

“Sir,” Athos said, turning to leave.

“And, Athos, I. . .” Tréville paused, the words catching in his throat. 

“I know, Captain,” Athos said softly, his eyes smiling, “I have always known.” The swordsman opened the door with his left hand and shut it softly behind him. He slumped against the thick wood, as though all energy had been suddenly drained from his body. 

Athos took a deep, shuddering breath as the captain’s words replayed over and over in his mind. At last, he stood tall and squared his shoulders, wiping the moisture from his eyes. With a resolved breath, he walked to his room, deciding to forgo a visit to the infirmary.

Captain Tréville picked up the clock, shaking his head as he thumbed over the inscription on the back; he blinked back the wetness blurring his vision and let out a long sigh. 

“Every day is a gift when surrounded by those we care about,” Captain Tréville whispered, opening the bureau drawer. His mind drifted back to the palace sickroom and the tinkling of metal skittering across the floor; he shuddered, dismissing the memories. 

The captain put the clock away, closing it from sight. 

 

**FIVE DAYS LATER, D’ARTAGNAN’S ROOM:**

“Come on, after the hard work we put in today, we deserve a night out,” Aramis said, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve.

“I’m thirsty,” Porthos growled. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” d’Artagnan asked, a sharp edge to his voice. “I’m not in the mood for going out,” he grumbled, rolling over to his side. “We’ve had a hard day training the recruits; I’m sore and tired, and I have a headache. I just want to go to sleep, so go ‘way.”

“We ‘ave just the thing for ‘at headache.” Porthos clapped his younger brother on the upper arm, laughing heartily at the Gascon’s steely glare. “You’ve been workin’ too hard; it’s time to relax.”

“I told you, I’m not in the mood,” d’Artagnan snapped. “Why don’t you ask Athos? I don’t think he’s been away from the garrison since. . .” he stopped short. 

“Look, we’re all on edge,” Aramis said gently, understanding. “It’s been a hard week on everybody, with the king pressuring us to get the new recruits trained. I believe we have successfully weeded out the unfit, undesirable, and simply obnoxious and unlikeable,” he sniggered lightly, thinking of the two cadets who had challenged the still-healing Athos.

“And yet we’re still short-handed,” d’Artagnan huffed angrily. “With Athos on continued light duty, the bulk of the work falls on our shoulders.”

“Exactly why we need to get out of here and relax, my friend,” Aramis asserted. “I think it would do _all_ of us some good.”

“Aye, I think a pint would help put the week behind us,” Porthos added, winking at the Gascon.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” d’Artagnan agreed, standing up to stretch out his weary body, yawning. “I’m tired of staring at the same four walls.”

“Thought you’d come ‘round,” Porthos laughed, clapping his large hands together happily. 

“Is Athos coming too?” d’Artagnan asked, motioning toward Athos’ door as they headed down the stairs and through the courtyard.

“I haven’t seen him all afternoon,” Aramis reported, frowning as he glanced back over his shoulder. “I can’t imagine where he could be.”

“Oi, I’m sure he’ll show up, lookin’ to quench his thirst,” Porthos replied. “Come on, let’s get ‘at drink.”

**~§~**

“I spent too much time in the sun today,” d’Artagnan complained at the door of the Wren. “It feels like even my hair is sunburned.”

“What you need, my brother,” Aramis began, “is a hat.”

“What _we_ need is a damn drink,” Porthos corrected. “I’m parched.” 

“I agree with you both,” d’Artagnan huffed with amusement, clapping both men on the shoulder.

“We’ve come to the right place then,” Aramis grinned. “Well, for the most immediate need, anyway. After you,” he said, sweeping his arm through the doorway of the pub.

“Surprise!” 

D’Artagnan startled as the crowd of fellow Musketeers jumped out from behind their hiding places, shouting salutations and birthday greetings.

“Happy birthday, d’Artagnan!” Aramis said, grinning.

“Happy birthday, li’l brother,” Porthos laughed, clapping his hands together at the Gascon’s stunned reaction. “We were hopin’ you’d be surprised.” 

“Surprised?” d’Artagnan repeated, elated. “I had no idea! When did you plan this? How did you. . .?”

“Never you mind the details, my love,” Constance interjected, kissing the Gascon on the lips. “The question is, do you like it?”

“I don’t know what to say,” d’Artagnan whispered, his voice catching. His eyes drifted to the table, piled high with beautifully wrapped presents, then his jaw dropped with amazement. “Look at the cake! Did you bake this yourself?” 

“I most certainly did,” Constance replied, her large brown eyes shining brightly. “It’s your favorite, buttercream with marzipan.”

“Mmm, can we start with dessert?” d’Artagnan asked, breathing in the sweet aroma rising from the cake. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“I’m glad you’re hungry, but you mustn’t spoil your appetite by eating cake first,” Constance teased. “You’ll want plenty of room for beef bourguignon.”

“My stomach’s growlin’,” Porthos fussed, rubbing circles over his belly.

“Well, we mustn’t keep you hungry men waiting!” Constance laughed, sweeping her hand toward the head table. “Take a seat, gentlemen, dinner will be right out.”

“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?” d’Artagnan asked, glancing between his two brothers. 

“Oh, we had to get you down here _somehow_ ,” Aramis replied casually. “Besides, everything we said was true; we needed some time to relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“Where is Athos?” d’Artagnan asked, anxiously looking over the crowd; he couldn’t hide the disappointment at not locating his missing brother. “Is the captain not coming either?”

“Where Athos is, I do not know,” Aramis answered softly. “As for the captain, he said this party was for you and the men. He claimed he had a sizeable amount of work to do, but there is a gift from him on the table.”

“Excuse me, but there will be no long faces tonight!” Constance scolded, setting a steaming bowl of stew before the guest of honor. “I’ve been looking forward to this party for so long,” she whispered in d’Artagnan’s ear. “Please, try to be happy and enjoy yourself tonight.” 

“I am happy,” d’Artagnan whispered back, “more than you know.”

**~§~**

After the dinner dishes had been cleared away, Constance began carrying the gifts over, setting them before d’Artagnan. She sighed, watching as the Gascon searched for his mentor, his shoulders slumping in disappointment.

“He’ll be here,” Constance reassured him, squeezing his hand. “I know he wouldn’t miss this night for anything.”

“Here, go ahead and open our gift first,” Aramis said, handing him a large box. The medic couldn’t contain the smile spreading across his face, “It’s from me and Porthos.”

“Oh, my friends!” d’Artagnan gasped at seeing the fine leather boots, the silver buckles shining in the candlelight. “These boots are way too expensive,” he said, pulling them out of the box. “I can’t accept these.”

“Rubbish, it’s your birthday,” Porthos interrupted, feigning a displeased growl. “You _will_ accept ‘em, ‘cause we’re not takin’ ‘em back.”

“You’re more than deserving of those fine boots,” Aramis agreed, smiling softly. “Besides, you had to wait long enough for them.”

“I don’t know what to say, but thank you,” d’Artagnan said, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Those are sturdy boots,” Porthos said proudly. “They’re stiff as a. . .”

“Porthos, remember there are ladies present,” Aramis interrupted, suppressing a snicker.

“They’re stiff; you’ll want to break ‘em in before you ‘ave to trudge through snow and ice,” Porthos instructed. “Fall is just around the corner, so now is a good time to start.”

“I will wear them proudly,” d’Artagnan adamantly swore. “Thank you both so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Porthos and Aramis echoed.

“Open our gift next,” Musketeer Cicéro called out, motioning to the box wrapped in light blue cloth and dark blue ribbon.

D’Artagnan’s eyes grew wide, his jaw dropping open as he opened the box. “Would you look at this!” he exclaimed, pulling out the weapon.

“A new main gauche,” Aramis said, letting out a low whistle of admiration.

“Yeah, ‘is old one got chipped durin’ that brawl with the Red Guards at the Green Frog,” Porthos reminded, winking at Aramis. 

“It started over a couple of young ladies,” Aramis said, snapping his fingers. “If I recall, it was the Guerin sisters.”

“What?” Constance gasped in mock horror.

“It was just a misunderstanding,” d’Artagnan insisted hastily. “Believe me, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, and you know what I am thinking, do you?” Constance laughed playfully. 

“Here, open this one,” Aramis quickly interrupted, laughing at the lovers’ friendly banter. “It’s from the captain.”

“They’re perfect!” d’Artagnan exclaimed after opening the box. He smiled from ear to ear as he held up the new pair of leather gauntlets. “The captain must have known my old gloves were worn out from training the recruits; I believe each of my fingers have permanent blisters.” 

“We couldn’t have you training new recruits with blistered fingers,” Aramis offered, with a clap to the shoulder. “Those gloves will keep your hands protected, mon ami.” 

“I’d say the regiment ‘as properly outfitted you with a new uniform and weapons,” Porthos mused, noting the affirming nods of his brothers.

“My handsome, swashbuckling Musketeer,” Constance said, kissing the Gascon sweetly on the temple. 

“Judgin’ from the new uniform, Aramis might ‘ave some competition with the ladies,” Porthos teased, letting out a boisterous laugh.

“Over my dead body!” Constance retorted, smacking Porthos playfully on the arm. “D’Artagnan is spoken for; the ladies can look, but they cannot touch. He is mine.”

“Athos!” D’Artagnan jumped to his feet at seeing his mentor approaching the table, holding something behind his back. “I thought you had decided not to come.”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t come to your birthday party?” Athos asked, squeezing the Gascon’s shoulder gently. 

“But I’ve already opened all of my gifts,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

“I know, I was watching from the back,” Athos said warmly. “It’s good to see you smiling again.”

“You were watching from the back?” d’Artagnan asked, his brow creased. “Why didn’t you join us?”

“I had an important errand to run first, and so I was little late,” Athos replied apologetically. “I wanted you to enjoy opening your gifts without disruption.” 

“Wait a minute,” Porthos said, rising from the table to join his brothers. He narrowed his eyes, studying Athos carefully, “Somethin’ is different ‘bout you.”

“Athos!” Aramis exclaimed, turning the swordsman by his shoulders to get a better look. “Why, you’ve had your hair cut and beard trimmed.” 

“Now, who’s the dashing one?” d’Artagnan said, clapping Athos on the shoulder, winking.

“Oi, the cap’n will like it,” Porthos said, laughing heartily. “He said you were lookin’ a bit shaggy.”

“You didn’t have to get so polished and tidy just for the party,” Constance remarked, kissing Athos on the cheek, “but you do look handsome.”

“This is a special occasion, and long overdue. I have something for you,” Athos said, revealing a small box wrapped with a red ribbon.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked in a whisper.

“Open it,” Athos replied with a nod, “and you will see.”

D’Artagnan quickly unwrapped the ribbon and opened the box, pausing as his eyes caught sight of the treasure inside. His eyes suddenly widened, his breath catching in his throat. 

“My God,” he gasped, pulling out the new pocket watch. The golden metal shone brightly and glimmered in the candlelight. “Oh, Athos,” he started, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Read the back,” Athos said softly.

D’Artagnan turned the clock, his eyes dancing over the words. He reached up to wipe away the tears, blinking rapidly. _“Promise kept,”_ he read.

“That’s beautiful,” Constance murmured, dabbing at her eyes.

“How can I ever thank you?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice rough. “You didn’t have to buy another, but you were so worried about the clock being broken, remember?”

“I remember,” Athos answered quietly.

“I wasn’t concerned about the clock, but I _was_ holding you to your promise on my birthday,” d’Artagnan paused, drawing in a deep breath, “to fight, and to live. You don’t know how much this means to me,” his voice cracked with emotion. “I will treasure this gift. . . always.” 

“Someone once told me that life is a gift, never take it for granted,” Athos said, pulling his brother into a hug, clapping him affectionately on the back. “It’s a few months overdue but, happy birthday, d’Artagnan.” 

Aramis and Porthos joined in with their brothers, forming a circle as the men wrapped their arms around each other. They laughed and cried simultaneously, feeling no embarrassment as they released the repressed emotions stemming from months of suffering, tribulation, and near-death of one of their own. 

Pulling back, d’Artagnan wiped his eyes dry. “The only present I had wished for on my birthday,” he choked, his eyes tearing once more, “was that I simply wanted you to live.”

“It was my wish too,” Aramis concurred softly.

“And mine,” Porthos added.

“Having my brothers here with me is the best gift I could ever ask for,” d’Artagnan said warmly. “I have everything I need and will ever want.”

“Well said, li’l brother,” Porthos laughed, squeezing the Gascon’s shoulder tenderly.

“Well done, mon cher,” Aramis whispered in Athos’ ear. “You made d’Artagnan very happy tonight.”

“No,” Athos corrected, “we _all_ did.”

“I think this was a birthday party worth waiting for,” d’Artagnan happily declared. 

“Boys, come have some cake,” Constance invited, cutting the cake at the table and passing it out to all the eager Musketeers.

Athos later smiled as he glanced around the table, surrounded by the brothers he cherished; he tipped his head approvingly, as everyone was smiling and finally able to laugh once again. 

Although the party was really a delayed celebration of d’Artagnan’s birthday, it had evolved into a celebration of fulfilled promises, and a deeper appreciation for the brotherly bond that had rescued a gravely injured Athos from the grip of death.

Athos’ heart swelled in his chest at the sound of d’Artagnan’s giggling mixing with the boisterous laughter of Porthos. His mind drifted back to the crushing hopelessness he had felt in the dark tunnels; he remembered how his brother’s birthday had motivated him to hold on and not give up on life. 

At that moment, Athos realized how happy he was to be alive. “I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world!”

_THE END_

****

**BONUS, EPILOGUE:**

**VILLE D’AVRAY:**

“My God, look at this,” Captain Tréville dismounted from his horse, stunned as he looked around at the changed landscape.

The grounds where the Château de Montois had once stood were now transformed into a formal garden; colorful flowers bloomed between sculpted shrubs and aromatic boxwood as decorative edging. The gentle gurgling of a fountain in the center made the captain smile; he closed his eyes to the soft, relaxing sound as he breathed in the scent of boxwood, roses, and pine.

When he opened his eyes, he glanced around with wonder. _How could this be the same place, when just months ago, it was a site of horror, murder, and sorrow?_

“I lost one of my men, just down that hill,” Tréville said aloud, “I almost lost another on the stairs inside the house. The marquis lost his life in a brutal attack in his office, his blood still staining the floor as a timeless reminder.”

The captain shuddered, shaking off the horrific memories. “You had such a beautiful home, Marquis, but it had become a house of horrors since your death. It is good the house was torn down; it only served as reminder of its tragic past. But this garden brings hope of new life to the land.”

“Ah, will you look at that!” Tréville’s eyes widened as he discovered a majestic statue of the marquis behind the garden. The captain approached, getting a closer look at the nobleman standing tall and proud, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Marquis, this is how you should be remembered,” Tréville nodded approvingly, “as the good and loyal son of France that you were.”

“I brought something for you and your family,” he said at the new grave site next to the statue. The captain knelt in front of the large stone grave markers, removing the satchel from his shoulder. 

“Marquise Marie de Montois and Infant Son,” Tréville whispered, reading the inscription on one stone. “I thought you might enjoy these flowers,” he said, placing a large bouquet of pink Damask roses at the head of the grave. “You were a lovely lady, Marquise; I pray you have been happily reunited with your husband. May you all be at peace.”

“Marquis, I would like to share a drink with you, if I may,” Captain Tréville said, pulling out two glasses and a flask. He poured some Cognac in the glasses, placing one at the nobleman’s headstone. 

“To the Marquis de Montois, a gallant, faithful son of Ville d’Avray, and of France,” he said, raising his glass. “May he be with his beloved wife and son at last, and may he be happy. Marquis, I pray you are finally at peace.”

“But do not think I didn’t bring along a gift for the baby,” Tréville said, pulling out a baby rattle. “This _hochet_ is for you, Little One. You never got to play with a toy, so I hope this brings an eternity of happiness. . . and annoyance to your parents.” He laughed as he shook the toy, listening to the beads rattling inside the sphere.

“Well now, I must be off and return to my men,” Captain Tréville said, yet finding himself reluctant to leave. He lingered, continuing to kneel beside the headstones, mulling over the names.

“Perhaps, I will return,” the captain smiled, nodding. “Until that day, farewell, Marquis.” With an affectionate pat to the top of the headstones, Tréville rose to his feet and walked away without looking back.

**~§~**

A gentle breeze blew through the silent garden, rustling the petals of the roses and spreading their sweet aroma over the graves. A butterfly, with wings of blue, landed on the rattle, exploring the long handle. Spotting the roses, the creature flapped its wings, landing on a soft pink petal where it gracefully moved across the bloom, drinking in the sweetness of the flower.

Satisfied, the butterfly spread its wings and flew away, disappearing into the blue sky above.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Damask Rose:**  
> 
> Crusader Robert de Brie is given credit for bringing the Damask rose from Syria to Europe between 1254 and 1276. The name refers to Damascus, Syria.
> 
> There is a history of fragrance production in Afghanistan from the Damask rose; an attempt has been made to restore this industry as an alternative for farmers who currently produce opium. The cultivation is best cultivated in hedge rows to help protect the blooms from wind and to facilitate ease of picking. Gathering the flowers is quite labor-intensive as it must be done by hand. The rose is listed in "Index of Flowers and Plants in 16th and 17th Century Gardens"  
>  
> 
>  **Hochet:**  
> 
> Baby rattles "hochet" are among the oldest toys known in France, and probably even in the world. Tracing back to the 13th century, the word rattle ("hochet") was being used for the first time. In 14th century France, rattles resembled small shoes, horse sticks, tops and balls with a "grelot" (little bell) inside. In the 15th century, the rattle started being made with bone, coral and shells. In French royal archives, dating back to 17th century, we see examples of more elegantly designed & engraved rattles being made from silver, gold, crystal and ivory. These rattles had coral, crystal or ivory handles, and had several bells inside a decorated sphere.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Hope it wasn't "too" long for you to truly enjoy. Until next time, Au revoir!


End file.
